


A Wound Twice Cauterized By Fire

by metempsychosis5



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Humor, Athelas - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and memory, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Politics, Dwarven classes, F/F, F/M, Fíli Whump, Iglishmêk, M/M, Mithril is my device, Multi, Other, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Time Travel Fix-It, long fic, poly dwarves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28208058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metempsychosis5/pseuds/metempsychosis5
Summary: Not having with the conclusion of the BoTFA, Mahal interferes to steer Thorin right and keep him safe in a reality in which he and his do not die at Azog's hand. Once again, despite his best intentions, things do not go totally to plan... Mahal is about to find out exactly what one burdened exiled would-be King in a Lonely Mountain needs to keep his own world, let alone the Khazad, together. Whether he likes it or not.Featuring BAMF Company, Team Dís, Fíli and Kíli growing tf up, seven dwarf houses + the rest, fallible Valar, and one increasingly incredulous hobbit. A fic for those who enjoy long-ass epic sagas ranging right across Arda and giving indulgent backstory exploring dwarf culture, character relationships and Scenes We Did Not See. Convenient mix of film, bookverse & AU.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Dís/Dís's spouses, Fíli (Tolkien)/Original Male Character(s), Kíli/Tauriel/Original Female Character
Comments: 49
Kudos: 84





	1. The End/The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the epic fixit trope, through which I unbreak my little Durin’s Folk-loving heart. Contains petulant Valar messing, dwarrow giving Aulë/Mahal a headache, tragi-comic subtle ship slowburns, dwarf backstories, POC/queer OCs, fluff and angst. All props to Tolkien & PJ, I play with the characters for no profit but love. Title inspired by tētēma.
> 
> Marking ten years since The Hobbit film & navigating the pandemic with a ludicrously epic fic.
> 
> Ch 1 warning: brief imagery of self-harm.

_It will make the old fires of purification_

_Look like dying embers._

– Krigsgaldr, Heilung

^^^

_In Erebor, there was sound. Octaves deep, sonorous. It welled from the caverns, a low wave gathering into an impossible, overwhelming sonic current, coiling and unfurling up into every chamber. It tremored into the dankest mine, it susurrated up and out to the snowcap, it shifted surface stone so that the ravens and thrushes alike flit from their roosts above ground and fluttered, disturbed. It expanded and hummed down through the valley into Dale, shuddering in the tendrils of new growth in the city’s streets, it vibrated the waters of the River Running and out to the lake through the blackened ruin of Esgaroth, it shivered fruitlessly in the tattered skeins of the webs of Mirkwood._

_The sound continued, expanding on wavelengths that became less and less fixed to the physical world, rippling in ethereal circles outward, and inward, and beyond._

_In Valinor, Yavanna knelt, reached through Aman to place a forest-green fingertip on the surface of the earth of Arda, and frowned._

_Nearby, dark Aulë flinched, and hesitantly raised his palm, matter pressing in soft but urgent around him. Both felt the hum and the change, and they instinctively turned within in order to come face to face with one another._

_Aulë was aghast._

_Yavanna closed her almond eyes, both inward and out, feeling in herself and in Aulë the barely remembered cold of shock, and fear._

_‘The king is dead,’_

_Her lips moved along with those of her companion, tracing the contours of the vibrations as they settled in shivering furrows between them._

_‘Long live the king’._

^^^

In the aftermath of the battle, Bilbo had sat unmoving for hours. Gandalf had long since left him to be alone with his thoughts, the pipeweed smoked and words tumbled uselessly to a churned and bloodied ground, neither the pipe nor counsel sufficient to ward off the stench of death and gore that had sunk around him. It was in the rags of his clothes, in his hair. On his tongue, and his skin.

Around him, shadowed figures went about their slow and heavy business; there were the injured to fish out of the sea of bodies, the dying to see safe to the next world, the dead to bring in from the dark. He paid them no mind, the night deepening around him. Until one figure hesitatingly approached.

‘Bilbo?’

It was Bofur, at the edge of Bilbo’s vision, hands running along the rim of his hat. There was wetness in his voice, and his moustache drooped in such a way that brought a fresh sting to Bilbo’s throat.

‘They’ve laid them out for th- the cleaning. They’ll be entombed in the morning. I thought you would like some time to say goodbye.’

Bilbo remembered to draw an uneven breath. He looked up, Bofur wincing at the hollow look in his eyes.

‘Already? He’s – they’ve barely… it’s not even…’ he threw a hand at the sky, the cold light of stars only just beginning to give way to the inevitable softness of dawn.

‘It’s so’s Dáin can be crowned before next eve. Come on, now. Take your peace while you can, because you won’t have a moment alone with them tomorrow.’

Bofur leaned forward and Bilbo, devoid of any will, allowed himself to be gathered up and raised to his feet.

'We can’t wait,’ said Bofur quietly, seeing Bilbo’s face. ‘The elves, you know… and the refugees from Esgaroth. It’s a mess. And to have a kingdom without a king, now that we have the mountain back… It’s not right. It’s not our way.’

 _A vile and unrelenting pox on your way,_ rasped a defiant voice in the hobbit’s mind as he leaned grimly into Bofur’s side. He scrubbed at tears that again began to water down his smooth cheekbones.

 _Stubborn, prideful dwarves._ He wasn’t really directing ire at Bofur, he knew. His friend looked miserable, still bloodied and coated in dried sweat and grime as much as himself, reeking of filth, healer’s herbs, and resolute grief.

_Oh, Thorin. May the halls of your ancestors shut the gate and bolt it at your approach!_

They trudged slowly in the torchlight before dawn, avoiding the dark shapes of bodies in their path, and made their way to the death tent of the elder line of Durin.

^^^

Aulë spins away from Yavanna.

~ How did I not see this?

He whips his mind into doorway after doorway of worlds and time, seeking answers.

~ Eru, Eru, I take my eyes from the Longbeards for _five_ bloody seconds…

Yavanna laces her fingers tightly in her lap. There was little point trying to calm Aulë’s maelstrom. It would blow out of intense heat eventually, like any forge. Concerned nevertheless, she sends her mind after him, seeing what he sees.

~ I cannot countenance this –

Aulë’s form tightens and moves, inadvertently shaking the doors of the Spheres. Realities ripple as Aulë throws open door after door, snarling and slamming out openings as fast as he closes them. He needs no more than a glance in each of the Way-doors before he ricochets to another.

_Thorin is burned by the first fire of Smaug, lit like a torch on the balustrade of the citadel in the Lonely Mountain as he hurls his body to cover Balin’s and screams for his grandfather_

~ No, no –

_They never reach the Ered Luin. Thorin begs piece work smithing for a begrudging local lord in exchange for supplies and hunting permits for his people, who camp ragged, cold and hungry on the outskirts of town. Late one night after cooling the forge, Thorin locks the smithy and turns to make a tired path back to his cot. In the dark of an alley he is overcome by longshank strangers, locals, reeking of parochial hatred, his throat slit, his few belongings taken, his body spat upon with rancour and left to bleed out in the dirt. In the morning, Dís goes searching and finds him, and Dwalin in his rage burns the lord’s house to the ground. Thorin’s body is entombed by his sister and shield-brother in a high cave in the nearby hills, and the refugees of Erebor flee what is left of their ravaged and burning camp and scatter across Middle-Earth_

~ By Eru, I swear –

_It is Fíli, not Kíli, who recovers from the poisoned orc arrow, and Bofur’s arm is broken in the race to foil the dragon. So when Thorin in his sickness shoves Bilbo over the makeshift ramparts of Erebor, and the small tousled head swings helpless in the dawn breeze, neither one has the strength to restrain the king and snatch the little burglar away. Gandalf strides forward with a voice like thunder but he is too late: the hobbit falls gently, like a small doll cast from Thorin’s outstretched hands, his heart already broken well before his body hits the ground. Thorin cries out in sudden agony as the goldfever breaks and he realises the thing he has done. He draws his sword, turns slow as stone to face his heir, and puts his blade point-first through his own neck_

~ My great hammer –

_The Company are dashed against chasm walls and buried in a pit of stone and wood in Goblin-town_

~ How many? Where is it? Which is the one?

_Azog keeps his arm, and wins the day, and decorates the east gate of Moria with five heads of Durin’s line: the grandfather, father and his three dwarven whelps: two brothers and the young shield-maid_

~ May your forges spit forth nothing but slag!

_Thranduil chains Thorin and his kin in his dungeon to rot until Sauron’s forces swallow up Mirkwood. He has his Captain put to death and sends his son away for insubordination. The day the Uruk-hai punch down the great petrified wooden doors, he sits atop his stag throne, idly toying with the pretty ring he had taken from that small hobbit creature he’d found skulking among the cellars_

~ That foul serpent! That elf lord!’

_Thorin II, the King Under the Mountain, dies in so many ways in the Battle of the Five Armies. Dáin II sits on the throne of Erebor. He passes the Raven Crown to his son, Thorin III Stonehelm, who passes it to his son, Durin VII the Last, and from there Durin’s line and all the dwarves dwindle in the age of men, quietly and far under the world below Khazad-dûm, so deep in the earth even the light of mithril flutters and fades in the darkness_

~ Bloody Durin’s beards! I will find Námo, and they will listen to me!

The Spheres blur and shift, pulsing in colours and light as Aulë fumes and storms through the myriad, unending Ways.

~ _This_ is not the manner in which the line of Durin falls!

^^^

The pain had shrieked through his back then muted at his spine in an almighty thump, like a hammer, reminding him inexplicably of working his first forge, how it had shocked and sprained his small untested forearms. Except now, as the reverberation struck, it was as if the aftershock launched him right out of his body. And then he was suddenly sightless, a blank grey fading where there had been blue, and when the pain eventually dulled he found himself curiously at ease.

Then Fíli _opened_ his eyes, and sat up.

He was amidst what appeared as a thick, swirling fog. There was surface beneath him, but no landscape around, no ruins, no orcs, nothing. He moved around after a while, patting the ground – not ice, just a solid plane – and he was surprised to find his golden braids swung clean of filth. Wondering, he brought his unscarred fingers before his eyes, to his hair and beard, experimentally feeling at his chest; no gash, nor blood. He relearned the fabric of the tunic he was wearing, then his leathers and chainmail, all unscathed.

After a time that stretched unmeasured, he was suddenly no longer alone.

‘Kee?’

^^^

Yavanna flickered in between the time that is, and that which was, and watched.

The tent canvas had tumbled ponderously behind him as Bilbo entered. The air within was heavy with low torchlight and resin. Before him, three bodies lay side by side on stretchers, unclothed for the washing and treating except linen strips for modesty, too-pale skin bruised and crazed with the spidery webs of broken blood vessels, marred in places with dark jagged chasms. All was quiet except for the murmur of those on watch outside, and the swish and slosh of water in bowls as three dwarves gently cleaned the last of the blood and filth from the wounds and brows and bodies of the recently passed first male line of Durin.

Little droplets of water fell golden to the ground.

For some time, Bilbo just watched them in silence, his hands worrying themselves at his weskit, as if at a loss as to what to do. Balin hovered over the centre body, Dwalin the second, and Óin the third, cleaning, drying, tending. While they worked, Bilbo found he couldn’t look directly at the faces of those figures lying still and breathless in the centre of the tent.

‘Bilbo.’ Balin’s eyes were dim and tired when he finally lifted them. ‘We’ll give you some time.’ He and the others filed out of the tent, Óin’s mouth drawn downward, and Dwalin’s breath shuddering as he limped past, placing a hand on the shoulder of the hobbit.

Bilbo took a few unsteady steps forward, a sore ache growing in his chest. Staying an armspan away, he slowly made a circle around the three, and although it hurt, forced himself to look upon the faces of his friends.

They were bloodless, impassive, unreal. Copies of the dwarves he’d known. Their hair – deep brown, dark struck with silver, and golden – fanned out beneath their shoulders, their features cast sunken like statues, mouths darkening like bruises, their large hands in delicate repose at their sides as if in sleep. Someone had closed their eyes for them. The last time he’d seen each they’d been open, stilled in their final gaze of the world, shades of Durin blue and brown.

‘Thorin.’ It was a dull whisper, the feeblest attempt to call them back, far too late. Bilbo moved closer now, fingers shuddering as they traced the air above Thorin’s forehead, sensing the cold clay of not-alive beneath. He leaned forward suddenly, obstinately putting his own warm forehead to that of the king’s, willing his life-force just as he had on Ravenhill. _If I could, I would, please…_

Nothing happened but for coldness on his own brow. He stepped back, suddenly nauseous at his proximity to the bodies of Thorin, Fíli and Kíli, the heirs far too young to be set into stone – _if it could be me instead of them_ –

and Thorin far too… just far too… – _please –_

Bilbo sat heavily to the ground, clutching at the ache that had burned its way to his throat.

~ Bilbo.

He started. There was no-one else in the tent.

^^^

Fíli was comforting his wide-eyed, uncomprehending brother when another appeared beside them.

‘Uncle, oh… no.’ For Fíli could guess what it meant. He gave Kíli a squeeze, then crawled tentatively towards Thorin, who appeared to be having the same troubled reaction they had; seeking understanding and not finding it in the mist that drifted, the awkward touches to his chest and stomach and head, the disbelief at his too-clean garments. And when he became aware of the two of them, the pained, broken gaze.

‘My… my boys. Fíli… I saw you… I saw you fall – ’

Fíli shook his head and wrapped his trembling Uncle in an embrace.

‘ – Durin’s beard, my lad,’ Thorin grasped at him, gritting the words roughly into his shoulder, ‘I told you to not to engage…’

‘I can’t recall much of what happened in the tower, but I think they came upon me like a trap,’ Fíli murmured, as if in apology. He heaved a sigh, shifting back and allowing his Uncle to fold his face into his own hands, elbows on his knees.

‘One I was a fool to not have foreseen.’

‘We knew we wouldn’t live,’ Kíli cut in, staring into the middle distance. His brother and Uncle looked at him, the youth of his bare beard and open expression sloughing at Thorin’s heart. ‘We knew. And that’s it, isn’t? We’ve gone beyond… Unless this is all a Mirkwood dream,’ he added hopefully.

‘We were atop Ravenhill, and there was Azog and his spawn,’ replied Thorin, his voice hollow. ‘Do you think we dreamed the same?’

‘I didn’t dream that spike in my back,’ muttered Fíli, wincing and rubbing large fingers at his chest where a hole should be.

‘Nor I Bolg’s foul breath,’ said Kíli morosely. ‘The light of her face was almost enough to eclipse that memory. But not quite.’ He drew sad little lines in the mist at his feet.

Fíli made a small noise, an attempt at comfort in the absence of knowing what else to say. ‘Perhaps she lives yet.’

‘Or she walks in light now. Either way, we’re parted.’ Kíli’s head dropped. ‘And I gave her my runestone. Oh, Amad.’

‘Please, Kíli _, itkit,_ ’ forced Thorin, his tone as gentle as he could manage. He was uncomfortably recalling the surprise, consternation and the dim shards of something else – the residual sourness of gold sickness, no doubt – that had closed on his heart when, as they quickly worked to hitch the Great Bell to a new arc that would open Erebor’s makeshift rampart of rubble, Fíli had briefly told him of Esgaroth, and of Kíli’s unnatural attachment to the elven healer, that captain of Thranduil’s. Then, Thorin had bit down on his displeasure, not wishing to expend an ounce of the resurgence of energy that galvanised the Company for the battle ahead, nor bleed the tenuously-bound wound of his bond with either nephew, the bond that he, Thorin, had so assaulted on the ramparts and in the fool’s grip of gold.

Now, pushing that memory aside, he leaned to place his forehead briefly to that of Kíli’s, to soften any bruise his words pressed.

‘Dwarves and elves and all the folk go different paths in the world, and so it is after death.’ Staggering to his feet, Thorin peered uselessly at the fog that hung around them while biting down on the grief that threatened to fill his chest with stone once more. ‘Your amad – ,’ he cleared his throat roughly. ‘My sister would wish us to find our way home to our kin.’

‘What’s this place, then?’ asked Kíli, frowning up at him. ‘Are we not meant for Mahal’s Halls?’

As if the young dwarf’s words had prompted it, the mist began to recoil. His nephews rose quickly, and automatically sought their weapons; Thorin was surprised to find they still had them, although what worth the ghosts of swords, knives and arrows had in the afterlife, he couldn’t begin to fathom.

‘Should we wait and see if Dwalin and the others follow?’ continued Kíli nervously, as if unable to bear the silence oppressed on all sides by that grey curling fog, even as a way began to appear. ‘What do you think, Uncle? Will they defend Erebor?’

Thorin’s face fell dark and he said nothing, as they found their way tentatively through the receding mist.

^^^

Yavanna Kementári, in the Spheres, managed to follow the same trail forward in time, just a little. It was faint, but her quarry was of the fertile earth and woods, the orchards and fields and gardens, the kitchens and home-hearths full of plenty, and while not _of_ her, that little chime in the song of this world was enough _alike_ her. She could probably close most of her senses and still find that tiny, insistent spark of unrepentant life as far as the Void, and beyond. Curious.

Here, now. Here he was.

She looked around.

Green, as green as her pastures in Aman, as the long coils of hair that sprang from her own head, or greener. The tendrils of last season’s life’s seeds finding their inexorable way to a newly minted spring sunshine. The edge of summertime’s full haze. The dew of rain and the slightest whisper of leaves and fruits falling from boughs. All at once, thick in the air.

She breathed in deep and tasted the land.

It was, actually, a summer-like eve. The moon waned, sitting gibbous and yellow at dusk on the rolling slopes of the Shire valley. Over by a bridge across a small river on which clustered a few common-house buildings, a few hobbits called merrily, lanterns bobbing unsteadily as their bearers found their tipsy ways home. Otherwise the night settled peacefully among the crickets, and the low hoot of an owl.

Atop a small hillock, above a green door, a figure sat watching the low-slung moon. Smoke curled up from his lips to touch the tendrils of light hair that framed his round face, burnished silver-gold in the moonlight, and looped up into the evening. Occasionally his furred naked feet would tap at the cool grass on the veldt hill. Occasionally too, he would look up through the branches of a middling oak tree, the leaves cut like small battleaxes placed back to back, the tree canopy like a small mountain. The bark becoming rugged, and thickening.

Yavanna observed as the Hobbit pulled smoke rings from his pipe and felt at his vest pocket. She watched as he drew out an acorn. Drawing it up in front of his eye against the light of the setting moon, the Hobbit turned it around in his fingers, following its smooth line.

He tucked it back into his pocket, placing it carefully as if next to something else, and patted it. Sighing heavily, he rose and made his way back into the round green door, and the lights of the smial went out.

The Green Lady tilted her head, considering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul: (thanks to Dwarrow Scholar)  
> itkit: silence! (a command). Compare with 'atkât', the noun for 'the silence' in Khuzdul, which is what Thorin is supposed to have shouted at the Company in Bag End in the film. As what he yells doesn't really sound like either*, my headcanon has him yelling something a little harsher in Khuzdul, perhaps a Longbeard colloquial cussword to stfu :)
> 
> *later edit: after further delving in the interwebs - I think what Richard A as Thorin is yelling could, very plausibly, be 'Aklâf'. It sounds like it anyway, and aklâf, according to the inestimable DS, is a curseword meaning 'damn'. This totally agrees with my HC: the equivalent of Thorin yelling GODDAMNNNN at the Company to get them to shut up. Excuse me while I absolutely love this.


	2. The After, and The Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there is fluff and angst. The idea of the Company's PTSD after BoTFA always saddened me, and I hope I've treated them tenderly. Also, in which I discovered I really like writing Nori.

The gates that appeared from the mist were made of stone and metal, thick geometric and dwarven. They were taller and wider than those of Erebor, stretching as far as Kíli could see or even imagine. There was no end to them any which way he tipped his gaze. He sped forward as the mist faded from the walls and the runic symbols clarified, running delighted fingers across carved stone and forge-worked iron.

‘Look! Uncle!’

Something in Thorin seemed to shift by degrees as soon as the mist revealed the structure. Awe barely touched by burden appeared to lift his heart and charge his bearing, a slight widening of deep blue pupils, a rare lighter set to his jaw. ‘Could it be?’ he whispered. ‘Our ancestors… and my – my brother…’ Thorin clapped an arm around his oldest heir’s shoulders and pulled him closer, feeling oddly warm and solid to Fíli’s senses, the leather of his Uncle’s tunic roughing at his cheek.

Thorin’s voice rose, quietly exultant. ‘My sister-sons, be glad. Here we find respite from our grief, here we will rest in honour!’

Silence fell flat against Thorin’s proclamation. The gates remained as they were.

Fíli cleared his throat, walked forward to join his brother, and tapped at one of two great iron latches.

‘They’re not opening,’ said Kíli unnecessarily. ‘Do we knock?’

Fíli put an ear to it.

‘I think I hear a gathering, as if in the distance. Uncle?’

BANG BANG BANG BANG

‘Kíli!’ 

~ Sons of Durin.

The three of them froze where they were, Kíli with his fist in mid-air. Thorin stepped back two paces and assessed the imposing gates for the source of the disembodied, bell-like voice that was not so much spoken, as arrived everywhere, all at once.

‘Mahal? Lord, is… is that you?’

~ It is not He. Námo speaks to you now.

‘Ah. Yes, Lord,’ said Thorin, wrinkling his brow slightly in his nephews’ direction, hurriedly making the imperative to _bow with formality to the elder not-dwarrow_ in _iglishmêk._ ‘We are… we are at your service. Are we not at the Halls of Waiting?’

The voice thrummed, appearing from everywhere and nowhere.

~ You stand at the ways on the borders of the Halls of Mandos. Your place is the Halls of Waiting for dwarrow-kind, behind the gate that stands before you.

 _How many halls?_ Hissed Kíli in quick-sign. Fíli shrugged, a golden moustache-braid flopping at one side as he twisted his mouth, recalling only the long droning hours of Balin’s lessons, and not the detail.

Thorin ignored them and inclined his head politely. ‘Yes, uh, Lord. Will you admit us so that we may enter?’

There was a moment of disembodied pause, then the voice prompted, cold:

~ The latch?

Fíli gave the gate’s latches an experimental toggle. Kíli shouldered him aside and tried it several other ways. Thorin cut through them both and attempted to lift the metal. He pushed, and pulled.

‘The gates will not open, Lord,’ said Thorin, a little shortly.

There was another pause, and the three dwarves looked at eachother. The silence felt crowded with displeasure, and then the voice muttered, as if speaking to itself.

~ Am I to be your doorkeeper, Aulë?

Then, louder:

~ A moment.

The atmosphere appeared to blank, as if some great being had put an aural damp on the space in which they stood, in order to mask another conversation. It lasted a few beats.

~ Ah. Sons of Durin.

The bell-like voice was terse.

‘Yes?’

~ Aulë has locked the gate, and he will not allow you in.

Fíli raised his eyebrows, while Thorin’s drew down.

^^^

‘Portents? Oh, sod off.’

‘No, that’s exactly what he was on about. You know, that prophecy. Something something, the ravens returning to the mountain, here comes the king. Time’s up old snake, cheers and thanks for the gold.’

Bofur nodded amicably into his tankard and scratched underneath the eaves of his woolly hat, while Nori rolled his eyes the full circumference of their orbits.

‘Load of old dross. My brother ain’t half stuck up his own behind most the time, but even he can’t be having it with Óin’s rubbish. _Dori_ said, last time there was a low council meeting and that old leaf-squeezer came out with that claptrap, Lord Thorin just stared into space for a full five minutes. I’m telling you, it’s getting to him.’

‘Glad Dori has t’ deal with that muck and not us, I’d sooner have whiskers to my knobbly knees and still be working out my mining contract than sit around all day arguing with guild leaders,’ reflected Bofur with no small amount of relief.

‘To the Abyss with that,’ agreed Nori, taking a derisive swig of ale for emphasis.

‘Come to think of it, I probably will be,’ admitted Bofur. ‘On the way out the door to meet Mahal while still putting the mattock through his good, dark bedrock. You know how it is. Geertje to keep happy, a delve full o’ little fidgets to feed, not to mention Bombur. And our cousin, well…’

Their eyes travelled sideways to rest on Bifur, sitting beside them at the tavern table. He wasn’t drinking with them but appeared content in their company, quietly whittling at a piece of wood, calloused fingers feeling for the flow and grain of the material, and occasionally humming to himself. Bifur didn’t say much these days, and had vocalised less and less since the axe had lodged itself in his forehead so many years before; when he did speak he suffered from crosstongue, calling up with astounding fluency the old language Khuzdul that was now used sparingly for naming, ritual ceremony, blessings and curses both, or battle. He could still communicate in _iglishmêk_ of course, which was considered a cradle language. But there too, his utterings were often looped or inverted, not always quite fitting the conversation and often becoming a point of confusion or even embarrassment for himself or dwarves who were not close kin. Bofur could see how hard Bifur tried to feel steady and a part of their Ered Luin community, making little toys to sell at their family market stall, stumping in circles around their quarter with his rounded, staring eyes taking in everything, talking in his way to whoever would stop to take the time. But Bofur was sorely aware his cousin seemed to be withdrawing, subtly and slowly, even today less likely to dance his fingers in conversation than a year ago. Bofur could remember a time before the axe when Bifur had been the sturdy, affable older relation he’d looked up to, the stout Ered Luin stonemason who had always had a kind word for him and behaved more like an uncle than a cousin to the small family of returned Blue Mountains migrants one generation removed via Dunland, who alongside the refugee Longbeards had made the long trek home after Azanulbizar.

Watching Bifur’s white-streaked shock of black hair fritter as he worked, Bofur pursed his lips.

‘I’ve got my work and it does for me and mine. Better’n playing big nob with a small axe at council any day.’

Nori leaned forward suddenly. ‘What if you don’t have to do either?’ 

‘Wha?’ Bofur creased his brow, his lively brown gaze momentarily confused.

Nori’s voice lowered conspiratorially. ‘I’ve been thinking. I got no doubt Óin talks utter troll bollocks about his signs and what, but here’s the thing: I think Thorin’s actually considering it. Goin’ back, I mean. And if he does…’ Nori trailed off theatrically, shuffling further forward on his bench in order to set his lips next to Bofur’s ear.

‘…If he does, he’ll need a Company.’

‘And?’ Bofur’s eyes crossed under dipping brows as he tried to make sense of this while keeping a dubious sideways eye on his friend. 

‘ _And_ ,’ hissed Nori, fisting a hand on the table, ‘Whoever goes, will be first in line to get some o’ that gold that’s locked up in that mountain. I don’t give a stuff about what the nobs want to do, but…’ He turned his head to one side, waggling a braided brow in confidence. ‘If we do this, we’ll be set for life. No more runnin’ around Arda for me. Not as much, anyway,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘No more bone-breaking mattocks for you.’ He leaned back with satisfaction to watch his friend’s face twist in the effort of understanding.

Bofur yanked hard at his hat as if to wake himself up. ‘Right you are. Long as they’re not taken out by the first orc raid to cross their path. Not to mention that bloody huge dwarrow-hungry firedrake breathing a warm welcome home at the end of the tunnel!’

He fixed a suspicious eye on his friend, ranging across the pinched but clever jaw, the ostentatiously satirical multiple braidings he insisted on in part to wind up his brother, that hawkish look he’d nevertheless learned to trust and even like since they’d first met on the long walk from Dunland.

‘Mahal in a minecart. You’re actually serious.’

‘I’m telling you,’ Nori slapped his hands on the table and rose, making the sign for _my round_. He pointed at his friend, grinning, ‘You wait. He’s going to issue a call to arms to the clans within the month, or I’m Dwalin son of Fundin. And when he does, Bof,’ Nori tapped his nose over his shoulder, already moving over to the aleroom’s counter, ‘I’ll come callin’ for you. Just think about it.’

Bofur gaped and shook his head at his friend’s back.

‘ _Smoke rises_ ,’ grunted Bifur suddenly in Khuzdul, apropos of apparently nothing. Bofur turned and stared at his cousin, who had carefully put down his whittling so that his fingers could accompany his words. They moved in a briefly fluttered loop, expanding like a flower, skyward.

‘ _The bird flies, and it shines. It shines_.’

^^^

By three weeks after the battle, Thranduil had swept off back to his halls taking most of his wood-headed, birch-arsed elves with him, save for a miserly obligatory detail of soldiers to assist with the ongoing cleanup and rebuild of Dale and Erebor. Some human refugees from Esgaroth remained squatting in the Mountain’s entrance hall, begrudgingly allowed by Dáin at Bard and Balin’s adamant request, waiting out the rest of the winter in rough camps of skins and furs propped on heaped stone. The Iron Hills soldiers who had chosen to stay had already scouted quarters in the residential caverns assessed by Bifur and Bofur to be stable. And Dwalin had hand-picked two dozen guards to escort Gandalf and Bilbo – now named dwarf-friend for all the good it did his pain – taking them south and west through the Old Forest Road, leaving behind two sentries per six Silvan elves to hold the way for the caravans from the Ered Luin that would eventually come rumbling.

Duties were shared, but in the great green halls the three races still kept loosely to themselves. The elves were watchful, sitting in cloaked clusters of long limbs and still faces, the soft lilts of their language rolling quietly in the background. The humans and the Iron Hills dwarves had united in a shared canopy of grieving silence for many days after the battle. But time was passing, and there were things to be done and life to be lived, and most of those present turned with relief to a new version of normal.

This wasn’t yet true for the Company. Dwalin had lost any sense of real time and was no longer counting, although Balin kept a stubborn calendar, and Óin marked each scabbed and healing wound as a small victory. All Dwalin knew was it had been many, many days now of waking to each morning, eyes adjusting to the ebbed hearthlight, and his mind having to navigate anew the shocking cascade of nauseating, irretrievable loss.

Members of Thorin’s Company, as they were referred to by outsiders, were each dealing with the trauma differently, Dwalin had come to realise. He watched, thick scarred brows drawn down as if by a terrible gravity, as Ori stumbled into the common room long past noon each day, Dori trailing worriedly behind him. The lad’s eyes were always red and sleep-bereft, his childish mouth fixed in a new and hardened line. He had the waking frights from battle, Dori had told him and Óin in a low voice, and the old healer had just nodded once and made up his strongest sleep-brew, _better he makes it through the sharp end of this as if sleepwalking, than feel everything at once, all the time,_ the elder dwarf pronounced. Dwalin saw too, Nori had become increasingly clenched in held anger, his rage surfacing in erratic bursts, while Bofur surveyed the dragon-ruined halls with a perpetual air of leaden sadness, his moustache drooping in barely tended braids. His brother Bombur and Glóin busied themselves to distraction, working with the Iron Hills dwarves to sort out supplies, rations and fair distribution of the gold-hoard, and neither had to be getting more than three hours’ sleep a night.

Dwalin supposed he operated similarly, on dogged rotation with Dáin’s captains to keep the troops drilled and occupied with clearing the lower levels, and assisting the new King, Balin and Dori to manage envoys, messaging and planning for the returnees from the Ered Luin and new migrants from the Iron Hills. And yet he was moving barely at half-pace, he knew. There was a part of him that remained numb and cauterized, the way he preferred, the way he would deliberately choose to remain, long after the Mountain was back to her glory.

Bifur, now. Perhaps it was no surprise to see how the scarred dwarf with the bird’s nest of hair coped better than the rest of them, given he had been so suddenly changed. After losing his axehead, and in finding his Westron, Bifur made rounds of Erebor every day just talking to people, exchanging pleasantries, news and gossip with dwarves, humans and elves alike. Dwalin had seen him go to gather water-greens with some of the Laketown refugees, returning in the late morning laden with baskets of the fruits of his foraging bound for the kitchens, yet immediately sitting with a small human child and carving a perfect little wooden ball out of an old stump he’d found somewhere along the path. Another day Dwalin stumbled on him in one of Erebor’s slowly regenerating workshop quarters, standing with two bowyer elves and talking them through the merits of knapping and clever hafting of razor-sharp black obsidian arrow heads as against petrified forest oak. And just yesterday, he’d come across Bifur coaxing Ori to the raven-roost to meet with and feed some of Roäc’s new great-grandchildren. It seemed the dwarf was everywhere, making use of his rediscovered vocals. What was strange though, was that he had not stopped using _iglishmêk_ as fluently as he had used it alongside Khuzdul.

Like this evening. As with most nights, the Company huddled in a tight circle in the place next to one of the fireplaces in the Great Hall that Dwalin had marked as theirs. No Iron Hills dwarf ever intruded on them, and any other folk coming for their meal deliberately sat as far from the Company as was comfortable yet polite.

‘Mahal,’ heaved Bofur, the last to seat himself among them, in afterthought placing his plate of food on the ground in favour of nursing his tankard of ale. He raised it half-heartedly. ‘Don’t we all look like shit.’

After that, nobody felt like talking. They simply sat in whatever companionship was left them, mechanically consuming their food. Around them, the voices of the new Ereborians and humans and elves bubbled. There had been a delivery of ale and wine from the Greenwood this morning, and those in the Great Hall were making fair use of it.

Laughter and ribald joking grew louder around them, while the Company sank further into themselves.

And then, _crack_ –

Dwalin’s head snapped up, startled; Nori had kicked back his iron stool and stood, unkempt braids heaving on his wiry chest, teeth clenched.

‘Nori?’ Bofur spoke his name low and measured, a warning, as Dori hissed at his brother to sit.

Nori turned sharply, hurling a hard stare to the middle of the Iron Hills folks, many of whom were elevated nearby on the royal dais. In their midst, Dáin guffawed at something one of his captains had said, slapping him on the back; the gathering of dwarves brayed with laughter. Before them the children of the humans played, and their families ate and talked loudly to be heard over the shout and chudder of dwarven mirth.

Nori picked up his stool, took two quick steps, and flung it hard at the greenstone column next to the dais, iron rivets shattering from the legs; the great clang of the sound echoed painfully around the great hall; dwarves reacted, ducking for cover or rising with blades out, elves whirled in their seats, and the humans shrieked and exclaimed, an Esgaroth man spilling his tankard over a table. All talk and levity suffocated under Nori’s darkened glare.

‘Quiet _down!_ All of you! Shut up, just for _once,_ and show some _bloody respect_!’

Dáin rose up now, offering appeasement. A child began to cry.

‘Nori…’

‘No, I’m not having it. Bloody lords, you all stick together until there’s a crown involved. Where were you when Thorin called, Dáin?’

The newly crowned Dáin folded his arms, mouth turned down at the corners.

‘ _Where were you?_ ’

‘They came, Nori, just stop,’ muttered Bofur urgently, Nori ignoring him, his eyes flashing. He lifted his chin and stuck it out belligerently.

‘He could have brought the rest. He could have levered the Rhûnfolk out of their holes. But no. You got what you wanted, eh, _King_?’ He looked daggers at each group of Iron Hills dwarves, muttering to eachother.

Damp lines coursed down Nori’s cheekbones, running in sharp tracks from his small eyes to the contours of his unkempt whiskers, Dwalin was almost affronted to see. He realised numbly that this might be the second time he’d ever seen the dwarf cry.

‘We _all_ got what we bloody came here for!’

The last was ragged, a half-sob, Nori appearing to waver where he stood. Dwalin appeared behind and guided him back to the Company, pulling another stool underneath him and placing him gently upon it, diplomatically facing away from Dáin. The King himself sat down again, exchanging a long look with Balin. Talk hesitantly started, albeit in whispers, and people began to gather up their dishes, casting askance frowns toward the Company as they left the hall.

Nori palmed at his eyes as Dori hesitantly patted his back.

‘What difference would they have made, Nori?’ appealed Bofur quietly. ‘And this lot can’t help but move on. They’ve got lives to live,’ he persisted, but then was stopped by a soft tap on his knee. It was Bifur, shaking his head no.

Silence among them stretched like a heavy, opening wound, until after a time, Bifur opened his mouth. His voice gruffed softly, vowels lilted and consonants pronounced, in the way of the Blue Mountains dwarves, his fingers dancing alongside.

‘You remember that time after the Carrock? I was on last watch with Fíli, and Kíli wanted to catch some eel for Thorin’s breakfast…’

Bofur bit down on an inadvertent smile, knowing how this one went. Nori, however, put his face in his hands and just shuddered. Ori was openly weeping again, leaning against Dori’s broad chest.

The black-haired dwarf looked to Dwalin and his brother, seeking permission; they both gave the slightest of nods, mouths trembling just a little. The others leaned forward, watching and listening.

Bifur regarded them all with empathy for a moment, then continued on. 

‘Don’t worry, _kharâm_. I won’t speak it. I’ll sign.’

Nori looked up then, his eyes tired and red, and his little brother blinked through a film of tears.

Bifur’s gesture drew them in so that they huddled together, close to the firelight. He smiled broadly, but kept his mouth closed. His fingers sped up their movement, picking up the tale, until soon he was telling with his whole body, causing ripples of what could almost be humour to rent its way free from each of the Company’s lungs, so that even Nori smiled grimly, and Ori laughed until once more he cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kharâm: ‘brothers’ (plural of kharm ‘brother’), also indicating kinspeople (as opposed to formal/family-oriented nadad and plural naddad). Thanks to The Dwarrow Scholar.


	3. Reforged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which petulant Valar are properly introduced, the space is made safe for forge-fetishes (not NSFW, alas, but you're free to take the prompt), we peer into Thorin's state of mind after death, and Fíli obviously inspires the author.

‘Maker? MAKER!’

Something clapped into form in the space before them, and the three sons of Durin fell back in shock.

The Vala appeared as a dwarf, but scaled vastly in size. At least two heights of Dwalin, thought Thorin numbly, suddenly struck by longing for his shield-brother. Certainly taller than Gandalf. Greater in bulk than Azog, even. A lion’s mane of shifting rust and steel, matching a voluminous beard thickly braided to his belly over a simple smith’s tunic. Inflated coal-black forearms crossed on the end of a great hammer, driven into the ground at his feet. Eyes of pitch and hard as iron, trained down on them from whiskered skin of smooth dark leather, and emanating annoyance.

‘Ma… Mahal?’ whispered Kíli, as Thorin prudently dropped to his knees and his sister-sons followed. Thorin opened his mouth to speak the proper greeting, but as he did so the space in front of them again crumpled. Something else contracted into being, silhouetted against the great gates of the Halls of Waiting.

It was another Vala, slimmer and taller than the other as a human to a dwarf, long hair flowing like wheat on robes of dark silver, face androgynous, and eyes the opposite of Mahal’s – these were like blank light. They cast slowly across the three dwarves shrinking into the ground, then focused on the one who had first appeared.

The bell-like voice rang in their minds, ubiquitous.

~ I do not have the memory of this. Aulë, open the gate and let them in.

~ It’s well you do not. They should not be here at all, Námo.

To the dwarves, the voice of the Great Smith rumbled like the roll of iron-weighted mine-carts in the deepest tunnels of the Ered Luin.

The one named Námo frowned, blank eyes winking out for a moment.

~ They are passed. Their spirits kneel before you, and their people have laid them into the mountain. Their sun has set for them at Erebor: I judge it so. Let them in.

~ In _one_ moment, that might be true. In another…

~ You _cannot_ say that, it is chaos to even call the thought into being! No, no, I will open the gates myself.

Thorin and the brothers watched them, open mouthed. Námo glided forward, and the latches on the gates began to move. Mahal, on the other hand, appeared to settle back on his heels. He rested his weathered hands on the end of his hammer, began tapping dark fingers on the hardwood, and spoke in a more reasonable tone.

~ Look, I don’t know how it happened, but we’ve taken the wrong road on this one. I have looked into the Spheres. The line of Durin’s Folk was not meant to pass in this way.

Námo flicked a hand and one latch unlocked.

~ The line of your precious Durin has not passed! Dáin is taken the throne. And Dís and others live still. Besides, there are far larger matters to balance.

Mahal’s voice rumbled back up onto mine-tracks made by giants; the three dwarves clapped their hands to their ears.

~ By my bags of coal, _will you listen!_ Dáin is the _wrong_ king, begetting the _wrong_ line. I saw it. You speak of balance, yet this way the whole of Arda will come undone, I tell you.

The other latch unlocked, and Námo held up a palm.

~ Arda will be tested regardless.

The gates began to swing into the Halls, and Thorin began to feel an inexorable pull, his knees sliding forward; he looked in confusion towards Mahal as Fíli let out a soft cry of surprise, and Kíli struggled to rise and stand, only to stumble a step forward.

~ Stay your interference, damn you! My gates! My children, stand as you are!

The gates moved further. ‘Uncle, it’s pulling me in,’ cracked Fíli’s voice, desperately seeking purchase as the very air seemed to prod him forward.

‘I – I’m not sure we should – just hold strong –’ Thorin pushed himself off the ground with shaking fingertips, skidding a little further on his boots, and looked wildly to his Maker. ‘Mahal?’

Námo shook their bright head.

~ My realm, my terms. Everything has an order.

Mahal expelled a frustrated sigh, then meaningfully caught Thorin’s eye, very slightly lifting both his index fingers from where they were resting on his hammer. He then gruffed loudly, exaggerating the sound.

~ Oh well, never mind. Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli and Kíli, heirs to the line of Durin, hear me. Let us _join hands_ and go forth to meet what is destined.

Kíli turned in confusion, each step taking him closer to the gates. ‘Does that mean we should just –’

Thorin shushed him urgently, eyes on Mahal, and reached out blindly. Fíli, quicker on the uptake, was already on his feet and grabbing for his brother’s hand. He grasped Thorin’s, and the three held to eachother tightly.

Námo turned to lead the way through the gate.

Aulë – Mahal – strode quickly to Thorin, clapped one hand to his shoulder, and with the other brought the hammerhead to the ground, hard. The four of them winked out, leaving Námo alone, framed in the gateway to the Halls of Waiting.

~ You may enter.

The Vala looked around, bright gaze blinking.

~ Aulë?

^^^

~ Lord of judging this and that. Lord of mind your own damn business.

Mahal threw his hammer to the corner of the dark basalt-walled room they were now in. It righted itself as it flew, and slowed to alight gracefully to the black anvil that squatted beside a homely looking smithy. The glow of coals in a small forge warmed the space, and broad windows revealed a dusk sky lit like a fireplace, casting golden light over rolling emerald pastures.

Kíli’s eyes were as rounded as the coins in Erebor’s treasury. ‘Are we in the Halls of Waiting?’ he gawped, he and Fíli circling the room and taking in the forge and bellows, the water trough, the tools and the anvil.

~ This is my forge in Valinor, little archer. In Aman.

His voice was no longer the booming rusted crankle of lode-carts in a mine as it had been at the gates; now it rumbled pleasantly across the smithy, echoing against the stone. He strode to the forge, rubbing dark hands.

~ My own corner of the worlds, if you like. By my hammer, Námo would not dare enter here.

Thorin, mystified, frowned though braids as his mind tried to come to terms with what had just occurred. Were they so close to the logical conclusion to the sacrifices he and they had made, all the suffering and loss, all those years denied their rightful home, wherein he – and Fíli and Kíli – had delivered the prize of Erebor to his people, only to be again denied? And by their own Vala?

‘Mahal? Why do you refuse us the Halls? Have I done you wrong?’

The Maker eyed him, as he selected a shovel from his tool rack and prodded coal in the forge, prising out slag and dumping it into a pit bucket.

~ Come, help me here, Thorin Oakenshield.

Thorin looked up at the Vala, his thoughts still roiling like molten metal. After a beat he acquiesced and moved to the two standing bellows beside the forge. He first tested the levers by fitting the metal into the palms of his hands, then began to work them, causing air to hiss and blow and the coals under the forge hood to spark and glower. Nearby, Mahal sorted through a tray of shards of shining silver-steel, grunting as he picked out three that he found satisfactory. Hoisting a set of great-tongs, he placed each piece into the heart of the forge to let them heat.

Then he spoke.

~ I want you to go back. To Eä, to the world that is. To your lives.

‘Lord… _What?’_ Disbelief painted itself on Thorin’s face, as his nephews gaped even wider.

~ I’ve nothing against your cousin nor his stripling, but it should be you on that throne with your nephews by your side. You heard. Something’s gone wrong that should be righted.

‘My cousin and his son will make fine kings in a new age of Erebor,’ Thorin asserted stubbornly, as much to himself as to the other.

~ Dáin will be third last of not only the Longbeard kings, but all of dwarrowkind, in his reign. And for the long ages of time to come. It is so in all the Spheres in which you die at the defeat of Azog, and in many more besides.

It was said quietly, as if for only those present to hear.

~ And that is too soon for my children, King Under the Mountain. It is too soon for the world.

Thorin shivered and moved closer to the forge, keeping a practiced eye on the metal’s colour. He should feel the burn on the bare skin of his face and neck by now, sweat on his brow and a raze to his throat and eyeballs, were he anywhere but this otherworldly place. He took up a forge-shovel and heaped the coal higher to heighten the eldritch temperature’s intensity.

‘I had slain the orc,’ Thorin tried, the word still tasting vile on his tongue. ‘Erebor is won. Fíli – Kíli –’ here Thorin choked, aware the younger dwarves had moved closer to watch and listen, the coal-light reflecting in their eyes.

~ Yes, here are Fíli and Kíli. Passed into the afterlife to sit amongst the waiting dead. Instead of rebuilding Erebor, their youth and blood warm in their limbs and hearts.

It was said kindly, yet Thorin clasped the bellows handles too tight as he alternated them. They had suddenly gained laborious weight, and he found himself breathing hard in effort as he worked.

‘They are – ’ he spoke with difficulty. ‘They are the mithril, the true silver-steel in my life, that which is so precious it can never fade or tarnish.’ Blisters began to form on already calloused fingers. He continued on, gritting his teeth as if every weight of every step to Erebor pressed on him now. ‘I did not want this, Mahal. Not this way. My honour, my – my friends. My kin. I see my folly for what it was.’

~ Do you now, all-seeing Son of Thráin? Smelt me into the Void, I would have you in Námo’s place, then.

‘I do not admit my gold-fever lightly, Maker.’ Thorin bit back frustration, the sweat pouring from his temples although still he felt no warmth. ‘You speak my father’s name. Is it not our lot to rest in the Halls beside them? Is it not the honour my sister-sons deserve, at least? Even if not I.’

Mahal turned his attention from the forge for a moment to stare Thorin full in the face, black eyes inscrutable.

~ You deserve exactly this moment, and herein I give you a choice.

‘A choice? What _choice_ did I ever have,’ returned Thorin, choking down a bitterness in his throat, stoking the now flaming coals as if he were stabbing at Azog’s eyes. His nephews stood mute, Kíli leaning in to quietly touch his shoulder to his brother’s.

~ You found your way, even when you thought you were lost, even when it seemed fate had forced your path for you. You know this in your heart, my child of stone. I am not blaming you.

Mahal turned back to the metal pieces in the forge. The anvil, of its own volition, rasped on its bearings to be closer to him.

‘I –’ Thorin found himself unable to speak, face to face again with the leaden guilt that had tracked him since he had awoken next to his sister-sons. He avoided all their eyes, and heaved his bodyweight against the force of the bellows. When next he spoke, it was simple.

‘Mahal. I am sick with regret.’

The Vala acknowledged it by clasping Thorin’s shoulder for a moment. His touch was as heavy and sympathetic as Beorn’s had been, the day they’d left the skin-changer’s home.

~ Metal must be tempered just right. Too much, and it is brittle and ash. Not enough, and it will never express the beauty and strength of its true form. But you know this, Son of Thráin.

The great Smith pulled the now white-gold metal pieces from the forge, twisted at the hips, and flipped each expertly to the anvil as the hammer flew back to his hand. He set to easy, rhythmic blows, turning the metal this way and that, flattening each piece and working it into a hollow form around the horn of the anvil, then tapping them into three tapered rectangular shapes. The dross metal he stretched and curled, twisting and attenuating into filigree that he added to each.

‘Lord?’ spoke up Kíli suddenly, swatting away Fíli’s warning hand. ‘If we were to return – ’

‘Kíli,’ ground out Thorin, silenced by one finger raised by the Vala.

~ I remind you again, Thorin, here are Fíli and Kíli. I would hear the little archer out.

Kíli gulped, continuing after a wary nod from his brother. ‘If we are to rejoin the world of the living, what would you have us do?’

Mahal gave a short, unexpected boom of a laugh.

~ What else but live? Just _live._ Follow your good sense and your hearts, and if you come across him, hammer Azog and his spawn firmly to the far side of the Void. For my sake, _this_ time, without losing your lives, or each other.

‘Did I not already – ’ said Thorin, at the same time as Fíli broke in with, ‘But Uncle had – ’

~ Not if you return. Your deaths were woven in tightly to theirs. If I undo the thread of what happened to you, I expect other weaves to unravel.

Thorin was speechless; Fíli watched his Uncle grind his teeth, but stubbornly kept at the Vala. ‘Return _where_?’

~ Back the way you came, is my reckoning.’

‘You’re not sure, then?’ murmured Fíli in consternation, as Thorin looked on, subdued. ‘Mahal, you don’t know?’ he repeated. The great Smith appraised the young dwarf, black eyes ranging across the golden braids, the matter-of-fact set to his jaw, the youthful frankness in his gaze. Nodding, he busied himself switching tools, fixing down three holdfasts and taking up a smaller chisel. He bent to work at the engraving, etching detail into metal as he replied.

~ This is an… anomaly. In truth, I could not see the Way forward clearly. Even Námo didn’t have the usual memories. And yet without the three of you, all I see is my children – all of them, and within but a few generations – stumbling down an endless staircase into utter darkness, forever. We are well in the slurry, Durin’s son.

Fíli scratched at a braid, pensive. ‘The Halls are real, and we are so close to our fathers,’ he mused as if to himself, a line appearing between his brows. Then tousled flax shook once, hard. ‘If it is as you say, then I would hold from my da’s side for a little longer yet. And I think Amad would agree. Kíli?’

The younger dwarf appeared in agreement, and yet something weighed on him. He looked up suddenly.

‘Maker? Can you see the destinies of elves?’

Pausing in true surprise, the Vala quirked a dark eyebrow. Beside him, Fíli straightened his back staunchly for his brother.

~ No, little one.

Kíli’s face dropped, and Mahal tilted his head.

~ But if you take this path, I might petition Varda Elentári, she of the stars, or seek an ally in Oromë, such as he remains the advocate of the elves.

At this Kíli brightened visibly, causing Mahal to rumble quietly in amusement.

~ Or perhaps I should speak to Irmo, since it’s he alone who could convince Manwë of desire?

Kíli’s cheeks darkened in the firelight; he ducked his head.

Thorin’s eyes were ice, now. ‘No elves, no bargains.’

For the first time, Mahal’s gaze narrowed as they flicked back to the king. The look may have been irritation, nevertheless touched with understanding and sympathy.

~ It is not unheard of. It is more unwise to deny love, would you agree?

Thorin’s ill look deepened; Kíli shook off his embarrassment and set his mouth back into a pained line, tilting his chin up to face the older dwarf.

‘Uncle, believe me, my heart is not led astray. I’d send a message to – to her if I could. But as for Amad, I won’t leave her alone, not if I have the choice. If you are tired, rest in the Halls, and we’ll return in your stead.’

Mahal shook his head and stated firmly, ‘Three of you together,’ at the same time Thorin thundered, ‘ _Absolutely not!_ ’

It was Fíli who held up his hands for peace.

‘Uncle? We’d stay by your side if we can, wherever we go. But it _is_ your choice… none know the burden like you do.’

Thorin closed his eyes, the coal-light still dancing beneath his lids.

_A choice?_

He would give anything to rest for an age by his brother’s side, with the comfort of his forebears, if they would have him. Except –

He opened his eyes and regarded his sister-sons: Fíli, staunch-hearted and evenly-spoken, as fair in temperament as the golden throwback Durin locks he had inherited, a promising first drawn likeness of a fine and resolved dwarven king. And impetuous, open-faced Kíli, with his dark hair taken after his amad and uncle, his youthful emotions and desires that ran mercurially across his wide-set eyes and sparsely bearded mouth, as driven as Thorin, yet even more bold and reckless in risk. A bright unpolished gem.

Neither one of them was anything close to the fool he was, he the almost-yet-never-king, consumed with his own self-defeating illusions of honour. Whose charisma of tenuous ambition had barely garnered a handful of dwarves outside of his own family to join on their fated journey, who had constructed high walls between himself and those he did and might have called dear to him, becoming rusted and jagged, poisoned and ossified with that accursed gold-sickness. A sickness to which he was predisposed, yes, but that he firmly believed only touched him so violently because of the flaws he already carried, his own deeply personal ruin the real malady. The King of Carven Stone indeed. A brittle stone cloven so easily, proved as unworthy of the Arkenstone as he had suspected all along.

And now, with no mountain nor kingdom nor Company around him, here he was, nothing but a shade, a memory. All but for the two of them, Fíli and Kíli, who by rights should have been raised to the Raven Crown in his stead, in _Dáin's_ stead, alive and hale, remaking Erebor back to the great jade haven she once was. No, not as she was, but making her new and greater, in their way.

What right did he have to force their destinies yet again?

And then there was their mother, his sister Dís, who – his heart clenched hard – he knew would be broken at the news of their loss. He thought with a start of the others who would be shedding tears now for him, for them. His Company. Dwalin. The – the burglar.

_Oh, Mahal. Who would be a king in a lonely mountain?_

The one he silently appealed to paused in his work for a moment, as if hearing him.

Thorin sighed.

‘I would have you two live long lives before you go to the Halls, if indeed there is such a possibility. I would see you rebuild Erebor, and witness her flourish for generations to come, in your name,’ he mused. Then his look turned rueful. ‘We return together, if return we can. If my sister were here, any other path would be unforgivable.’

Fíli showed a hint of dimple for the first time since they’d landed in the thereafter; Kíli’s eyes just shone.

Thorin cast back to the Vala, and something passed between them.

‘I do not know what you plan, Maker. But I will try.’ He caught a look from Fíli. ‘ _We_ will try.

The Great Smith took up his tongs. Clasping each piece of worked mithril he briefly doused them into a trough of water; they hissed as they quenched then cooled. He pulled them out and laid them atop the anvil. The dwarves saw that each delicately engraved and filigreed piece was a geometric braid-bead, at first the size of fists, and shrinking as they watched. They became smaller and smaller, until Mahal flicked them to the palm of his hand as they became bead-sized enough for a dwarf’s dense locks, twinkling and shining in the coal-light. Satisfied, Mahal offered them to Thorin.

~ You each take one. Affix them to your hair. As long as they remain with you, you will keep contact with Valinor, and to me, so I can keep close sight on you and guide you when you need it.

It took Thorin another moment of reluctance, but he accepted the mithril braid-beads then passed them out to his sister-sons; they murmured at the exquisite craftwork as they each took one. Thorin used one to replace Kíli’s behind-clasp, while the dark-haired young dwarf wove another into one of Fíli’s temple braids. Fíli then came close to work the third into his Uncle’s hair on the side of his head. Each wondered at how familiar and normal this felt, just like an everyday early morning in the Ered Luin, a routine braiding coddled by the scent of ground morning beans brewing, leather and forge-smoke, the sweet-sharp tang of metal. Coarse dwarven strands tickling fingertips that smoothed in the weaving. Kíli invariably humming along badly to some tune in his head, his thoughts already out the door, and his brother and Uncle meeting eachother’s eyes with a pained tolerance. The last time the three of them had formally braided together was in Erebor, that morning of the battle. The mundanity of the act in both circumstances, before death and with life imminent, was strangely fitting: a basic comfort rendered profound.

Mahal busied himself at the forge, clearing the tools and scrap off the anvil as he waited for them to finish.

~ Well, it’s time. Up you get, Durin’s boys. Your turn.

Fíli frowned as he completed the clasping, Thorin’s head at an angle.

‘Our turn?’

~ Into the forge with you all. Headfirst or feet first, it matters not. Quick now. Námo will be at Manwë with talk of order. Splinter in my hand! Now we are agreed, I will not see you stuck fast in the Halls.

The forge appeared to glow brighter and skim lengthening shadows across the room’s walls, growing larger until it was a size into which a full-sized dwarf could fit.

‘Lord?’

~ Get in. I will need to forge you back to Arda.

‘Do you think it possible to die once already dead? Shall we find out?’ commented Fíli wryly to the room, causing his brother to bark a laugh edged with hysteria.

~ Be steady; none of you will feel pain as you return to life.

Thorin swallowed, gently bumped forehead to his kin, and stepped up to the forge. This time he looked levelly at his Maker.

‘How will I know myself to be worthy?’

Mahal didn’t respond, but offered him a calloused, huge hand, and with his other lifted great-tongs the size of Orcrist. Thorin swung a leg into the forge, feeling no heat, and then rolled himself the rest of the way into the flames. The last thing he heard as his mind turned to smoke was his nephews crying out his name, and Mahal’s sonorous voice echoing.

~ Remember, my Oakenshield. It is lighter if it is a burden shared.

^^^

The worlds shifted, juddered to a halt, and inexplicably _reversed,_ and at the same time _rewound._ Realities duplicated, superimposing in uneven layers, blurring at the edges.

The Valar, as one, felt the change. Vairë the Weaver ran her hands carefully across the fabric of the world, the warp and weft of Arda frittering away. She picked up the cloth and peered suspiciously at the threads drawing free, unravelling in her fingers too fast to catch.

Ulmo of the Seas pondered a powerful new current, and checked upward to see if the Spheres were still spinning the way Eru intended. 

Námo, Lord of Doom, felt several Ways of the Spheres clang shut, and several others open like creaking gates. Bright eyes narrowed, and the bell-like voice pealed in a pique of rage, seeking out Manwë.

Yavanna was in her fields in Aman, coaxing the growth of a new Arda spring, and all at once felt the raw pulse of birthing power go straight through her mind. She threw her hands out, stumbling in confusion, the aftershocks ricocheting and sending her to her knees. Suddenly terrified, she struck out for her partner.

~ Aulë! What is happening? Something is wrong. _What have you done?_

She darted within, and ran to him where he stood, broad back to her, staring into his forge. Wrapping barked hands about his face, she pulled it around; the black of Aulë’s eyes were fully wide and blown, his mouth slack and dull. His hands, she realised, were shaking; she brought her fingers to meet his.

~ What did you do. Husband.

~ I looked into the Ways and Spheres of Eä. All of them. Stretching into eternity.

~ I know. I saw.

She palmed his forehead and his cheekbone, pressing away the beads of sweat that a Vala should not need to produce.

~ And I could only find one in which they all live.

~ But… there have to be others. The Ways are forever shifting. Aulë, it can’t be so.

He growled, turning away from her, and clutched at the smooth metal of the forge, his beard sparking as it fell into coals. And then he reached into the white flame at its centre, the fire roaring to life as Yavanna shrank back. He searched for a time, then drew away his fist which had turned a red-black, glowing like heated iron.

Grimly, Aulë turned back to show her his palm. In the centre were tiny molten flecks of white silver, rolling around like mercury, and joining together as she watched. They formed a puddle, and then a circle, and coalesced into a ring made of mithril.

~ I reforged them.

~ You did _what?_

~ I had to try.

He fell forward, and sagged in her arms.

~ One where they all live, Yavanna. Just one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, it's inspired by Tolkien. There's always a damn ring.


	4. Mithril Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we consider Dís, Mahal realises something is very wrong, and hello Irmo the Vala of Dreams. TW for Fíli whump (sickness) and flashback to other character death.

There was a dwarfling born to Thráin II, first heir to the throne of Erebor, just the same as there was across countless Spheres of reality. It was a boy, and he was born strong and hearty with dark fluff sprouting from his tiny squalling pate, except on the right side, where there grew an inexplicable streak of silver.

‘My little streak of mithril. My iron sharpened on stone,’ spoke his father softly, a broad fingertip running along that bright line in the small one’s hair.

The child, Thorin, gained a younger brother and sister, but he was a prince of the elder line of Durin, and so when the dragon came from the north to rend apart the foundations of his young life it was his due to become heir of the road and horizon. A stripling barely tempered by any kind of youth, but forged brittle under the weight of his broken grandfather and burdened father. A figurehead for people without a delve, with only but their crafter’s hands and tenacity of stone to put food in their bellies and sink shelter into the earth. If that were all, it would have been enough for the young lad to bear as he approached full maturity, but all Thorin received as reward even before his second coming-of-age was a mark of grief so deep it left a second scar to rival the first. That was when his younger brother Frerin, barely past his first coming-of-age, died on the same battlefield on which his grandfather passed to the Halls of Mahal and his father was lost, and on which Thorin earned his name Oakenshield.

The closest kin left to him was his younger sister Dís. Raised in the slow tide across Middle-Earth of a vagabond people, she had never viewed herself a princess. She recalled little of Erebor, where her brother had the memory of its great and noble halls. In her mind she was a shield-maid, and a smith of tools and worker’s blades, and in Dunland apprenticed for a second craft of shaping precious stones. From a young age she was fierce and distinct in her refusal of approaches from nobility of other clans. She was no Longbeard pawn, resisting the machinations of the Khazâd courts. No tepid match was her lot, and by the time that Thrór passed and Thráin disappeared, Thorin would defend to the death his younger sister’s right to reject what he himself had already. Any speculation on her suitability as a match for distant Khazâd nobles was to no purpose, anyway. Because along the way from Dunland to their fledgling settlement in the Blue Mountains she had given herself and her heart, twice over, to tawny Longbeard braids and kind, bright eyes.

As the small community of refugees hammered out a new place for themselves in Arda, deepening their delve in the eastern reach of the far western mountains and expanding it, watching it grow and build and over decades become enriched with migrants of other clans drawn to the opportunity to start afresh, she never hesitated to call this new place home. She loved the low slung mountain range. It was of a more ancient bluestone and shale, worn down by ocean salt and wind, poplar and bracken on the lee-side low slopes, and fir, spruce and lichen above, westerlies bringing a savoury hint of the northern sea, northerlies ushering flurries of winter snow that would turn to blankets of white in the deep cold. She threw herself into the work of managing the Halls as the community brought up ore of acanthite and grey hematite to forge goods they would sell to the men and hobbits of the hills and plains to the south-east, farmed flax and hemp on the mountainside, and herded goats and ponies in yards at the foot of the Halls. It was no Erebor, of course, but it was efficient, well-designed and modern, and there was enough for everyone.

In time, Dís brought into Arda two sons, the older born with the honey-gold hair of the Durin-fathers, the younger, dark mahogany. And just like their Uncle, both boys carried a streak of silver; the golden one threaded it through his left temple-braid when he came of age, the silver barely noticeable through the gold, and the other drew his messily through his behind-clasp, which was about all the attention he ever gave his unbraided hair. Dís never wondered at it, even if she and Frerin had not shared the trait, her own raven hair only silvering with middle age. Perhaps Thráin and Thrór had also carried the anomaly hidden as Kíli’s was; she didn’t remember them without their greyed beards, and now she would never know.

Dís had a small box of keepsakes in her quarters. It contained the training bracers she had been wearing the day the dragon came to the Mountain, too slender for her now, her boys’ first tiny wooden play-axes, each skilfully carved with a single deep blue Durinstone set into the handle, and a modest collection of precious beads, heirlooms snatched on exodus and gifts both, all made of different materials. She had given some to Fíli at his first braiding, and she had intended others for Kíli. But the evening before her brother departed on his fool’s journey to their homeland, taking her only sons with him, she had realised she may never have the chance to formally gift Kíli’s first braid-bead.

This last leaden evening, she opens the box and runs a questing finger through the gems and metals. Sitting atop the others is a piece of mithril she had forgotten about, she notices in surprise; it is exquisitely forged and chiselled, like a small geometric star, engraved with ancient runes, their meaning obtuse and unknown. _One left of three. Royal mithril of Durin, mined from deepest Khazad-dûm, the last of the Longbeard heirlooms. The exact same as I gifted Fíli at his coming-of-age, to match the one holding Thorin’s right braid. The bead that was given to him as a young prince by Thrór, a beard-clasp before he sheared it in grief, but that he wore in remembrance as a hair-clasp and then as a braid-bead when he finally came of age. This, the third bead in the trio, will match the others and keep them together, and safe,_ she thought. It was a fanciful idea, one she didn’t quite believe deep in her heart. It didn’t stop her from wanting it to be true. _This is the one._

She arrives at their leave-taking before they do, in the crisp first grey light of the morning, under the east-facing shadow of the Ered Luin.

For Thorin, she gives nothing else but a look of steel that mirrors in the mithril already woven into the right side of his greying mane, where his streak shines. He meets her ice-blue eyes with a resolve that eclipses the whisper of an apology, and brings her forward to meet her forehead with his own. She acquiesces, pressing her fingers sharply to his shoulders in a way that says, _I love you, you cracked idiot. Bring them home. Please bring them home._

‘Rocks in your head,’ she murmurs, foreheads still pressed, and it’s a statement of fact, but maybe also a benediction.

He says nothing. They part from their embrace, and between siblings there are no smiles of farewell.

‘I do not wish to die by a raven’s arrival,’ she says simply, and it is final. He inclines his head in sombre acknowledgement before leaving her side.

For Fíli, her heir-in-exile who but for fate would be next in line to be king, she holds his head and thumbs his cheeks and braids, as he in turn takes in the lines beside her eyes and the firm set of her delicately furred jaw. She passes a hand over the mithril that for two years has been firmly bound into a temple-braid, then presents a knife she crafted especially for him, drawn in the heavy golden lines of Erebor, to match the set she knows is hidden about his person.

His dimples showing, he tucks the knife inside the left breast of his coat, over his heart.

‘Amad. I’ll take care of them both, you know I will.’

‘Care for yourself too, my eagle.’

For her youngest Kíli, along with the runestone of safe return she signs gently into his hand, Dís replaces the hair-clasp that sits in the mess of his dark hair with the last mithril bead. She does it with shaking fingers, realising distantly that it was a transparently sentimental whim to match the bead to where his silver streaked his hair, just as she’d done for Fíli two years before, just as Thorin’s mithril lined up with his own. She doesn’t care. _Let others think me soft._ For the sake of custom she doesn’t braid it, even though he is only three years from the ceremony. _I should,_ she thinks rebelliously, _Mahal knows he is already caught up in the slipstream of Thorin’s chainmail,_ but in the end she keeps tradition, swiping her tears away and turning her son around so she can imprint the impish beam of his smile into her mind.

‘Listen to your Uncle. And mind yourself, my little one grown too fast.’ She purses her lips, smoothing and arranging. ‘By that I also mean the state of your hair.’

His eyes are filled with unspilled tears, but his grin is irrepressible. 

‘We’re going to see the _Mountain_ , Amad. I promise, I’ll make you something of Erebor greenstone to welcome you home.’

She folds him in for one last hug, before he swings onto his pony and the Company rides into the dawn. The last she sees of them is the rising sun turning the dwarves and their ponies all to gold.

^^^

~ By Eru, this is like steering a minecart through a mountain full of balrogs!

Aulë’s gritted teeth shone white in his face as he held tight to the mithril ring he had crafted from the dross of the beads he had made the three sons of Durin.

This was _not_ how he’d imagined it would go.

What he had thought – erroneously and absurdly, it seemed – was that they would be cleanly transported by his force of will channelled through mithril to the moment immediately before their deaths, and he would settle back in Valinor, his feet up next to his forge, impart a few supernaturally impressive edicts of lithic-grade gravitas, and simply nudge them around it. Or, if he had his way, straight through Azog and Bolg. Done, fixed, everyone lives, and Erebor there for the taking but for some minor interracial geopolitics. Simple.

To his utter dismay they’d been reborn again in the Spheres, from the point of Thorin’s birth, who re-entered the world exactly the same but for the silver streak in his hair.

~ All right, then.

Aulë, his mouth thinning, resolved to keep them on track so that they would arrive hale and safe at the precarious fulcrum of power that was the Battle of the Five Armies, and then… well. He’d sharpen that blade when he got there. But there was another challenge… the small matter of the Valinor-forged mithril link barely working at all. He’d wagered everything on the line of communication chiming like crystal in the silver-steel between Arda and Aman. He’d not counted on the connection being so weak, as fragile as gossamer, wavering as the Spheres rotated in atonal dissonance, and the Ways readjusted over and over, fragmenting and reassembling in labyrinthine misdirection, echoing with his frustrated yells.

So it was that Thorin made his way through the early, most hurtful years of his life, with Aulë maddeningly mute, trailing in the wake of the young heir’s mind reflected in the curved and billowing Spheres. All the while trying to keep the exiled dwarf alive, he raged in silent futility as the dragon ruined Erebor, as Thorin resignedly picked up his blacksmithing tools in the villages of humans, as he and the refugees packed up and left their outstayed welcome at Dunland and finally stuck at the Ered Luin like a limpet, delving slowly into the ground of their new home in the Blue Mountains.

Somewhere in between was the day that he had almost lost Thorin at Azanulbizar. After the lad Frerin fell, and then the old king, he’d bellowed himself hoarse exerting effort to force his will through the static between them. He was almost crying himself – he, the Vala of metal and stone, and Nienna he was not! He had forgotten this, he cursed. He’d been so focused on Thorin’s lean form cutting a swathe through the hordes of orcs, he’d not seen the boy, throwing his axe and warhammer wildly, Fundin and his son Dwalin at his back, the latter losing them by the ebb and force of the surging armies. He only just glimpsed Frerin growing tired, struggling to rise when knocked to his knees, the grizzled old Fundin screaming his name and pushing to reach him, then both disappearing underneath a snarling shove of crawling, hacking bodies.

Aulë rubbed a brow, pushing at his own skin harder than necessary, and vowed harshly to himself to go to the Halls of Waiting to see the boy once the battle was done. He snapped back to watching the battle once Thorin found what was left of his little brother, the lad – for Thorin himself was barely past his own first coming-of-age and nowhere near the second – falling to his knees in teeth-bared despair. Then he swung around; a tall shadow fell across him…

Aulë lost his control, and fell to shouting –

~ Shatter it all, you need to leave him be! You will bury him later, for now stay alive, by Durin’s axe! No, no…

He put his hands to his head –

~ Pick up the damn piece of oak, Thorin! …The OAK, child! …Use it as a shield! Quickly now!

Yavanna had appeared, called by his erratic sending, and took in her cursing, gasping husband, on his knees in the forge-quarters, the mithril ring shining white-gold with heat on his finger.

~ I can feel the Spheres changing hard, husband. Life shudders with the strain, the discord is harsh on my mind. Manwë will have noticed it too. He did not grant Námo an audience based on hearsay. He will do so now.

He rolled the pitch of his eyes in her direction, wheezing. His throat felt a scrag of aged pumice; no amount of power could save him the raw punishment of his voice.

~ This is… getting too hard… to keep this one out of harm. He hardly… hears me when I scream…

He bent, sucking in air, and Yavanna knelt beside him, willing the lightest touch of green energy to the hollow in his throat; too much and it would be suffocating for a lord of stone. She winced as the ebbing heat of the mithril ring very nearly scalded her, and a couple of her dark mossed coils fizzed and singed.

~ I don’t understand… the mithril was not impure…

~ Breathe. You are hurting yourself with effort.

~ So help me… the two young ones are not even born yet… and I can barely handle Thorin alone…

Yavanna clucked her tongue, and sat back on vert-edged heels, the dappled pigments of her skin moving like bark as her husband caught his breath. 

~ Love. You need help.

He panted up at her reproachfully.

~ And who… would help…? I can’t risk… Námo…

Yavanna regarded him.

~ While you were re-forging the sons of Durin, I looked into the Spheres. I followed the hobbit.

~ You… what?

~ I saw his link to them, and how it breathes with fullness, even now. How indelible it is. I saw… this.

She held out her hand. In it was a small oaknut, its cap wrinkled, its skin vividly green in Yavanna’s life-giving palm. Aulë peered at it.

~ An acorn? I don’t understand.

~ There are more ways than one to forge a shield. You just saw for yourself.

Aulë considered this quietly, filling his vision with his companion. She met his inked gaze with her own hazel.

~ It seems to me, there are seeds we must plant. Else you will explode yourself into oblivion. We cannot do this alone.

~ Then who?

She tilted her mossy, curled head.

~ Irmo.

~ That unwelcome puff of lilac-tinted hot air? No, thank you.

Aulë was a stubborn and prideful Vala when he had his mind set to something, and to Yavanna’s irritation it was some decades, and several other near-misses, before he reneged.

It happened well after Fíli and Kíli had both reappeared on Arda. By the time Fíli had made it to his second coming-of-age, the mithril bead finally placed, Aulë realised sorrowfully that the golden lad was as ignorant to his entreaties as Thorin. The connection to Valinor was as muted, and as useless.

Yet he kept trying to talk to him. Aulë swore by his own forge light that Fíli would occasionally narrow his eyes and look around, as if hearing something. But then he’d shrug, and go on with his day, and Aulë would bang his head against the forge wall in frustration.

And then one day Fíli suddenly took dangerously ill, and Aulë sat helplessly watching the stripling through the Spheres, his head in his hands, the ring discarded on the forge floor. Not a single one of his words would reach the young heir, not now, as he lay fading into unconsciousness.

~ I do not remember this from the last time he was alive.

~ Well, what will you do about it?

Aulë slammed a fist onto his anvil, and stalked away from Yavanna’s silent stare. 

^^^

It was night in the Gardens of Lórien. So when Aulë appeared he found Irmo sleeping there, and not grey Estë.

He strode into the silver, leafed palace of the purple sleeper, stuck his face over that of the shifting form, and yelled:

~ WAKE UP AND ASSIST ME, YOU DREAMY WAFT OF AMETHYST!

Irmo did wake, and did waft eyelashes of lilac poutedly in his direction.

~ Ah, Aulë. I take it you are calling in the favour.

~ Up and at ‘em, you soft grape. And that’s favours in the multiple, and I most certainly am. Yavanna is reserving hers for later.

Irmo sighed gracefully, and rose effortlessly from his bower.

~ First favour: you say nothing to that sibling of yours. Námo knows nothing. Yes?

Irmo rolled a suggestion of orbs.

~ I rarely speak to my sibling if I can help it. Námo has no time for matters of dreaming, desire, and creation.

~ On this, my violet beauty, we are in full agreement. Second favour: can you help me get into the dreams of dwarves? In full colour, so to speak?

Irmo blinked a waterfall of confusion, tinted in soft lavender.

~ I think I could? If you have means to locate them on Arda… oh.

Aulë had stuck out the mithril ring belligerently, and lilac swathed around it in small curious ripples that soon calmed to a drifting, accepting fog.

~ There’s my problem; I can find them just fine, but by my life I cannot make them hear me.

~ Let us see what we can do about that.

The purple Vala made the suggestion of a sleepy smile, and Aulë lost some of his cockiness.

~ There’s a catch, isn’t there.

Irmo laughed and purple butterflies tittered around the room. He indicated his vast bower, decked in iodine dreams.

~ Climb in and give me a cuddle, oh dark maker of the children of stone. I will need you to navigate.

^^^

Two years before they leave on the journey to Erebor, and not long after his second coming-of-age, a newly braided Fíli joins a merchant caravan as a paid guard. It’s not his first time. In the decades leading to his braiding day he’d been joining the merchant trails as part of his growth to full adulthood, Kíli following in his footsteps soon after. It had been insisted on by Thorin, encouraged dutifully by Balin and grudgingly by Dís, and Fíli himself had looked forward to the view of the Blue Mountains from the outside. Journeyman training in commerce, crafting and soldiering was a requisite exposure to the complexities of the world in and outside of dwarrow-kind befitting an heir, and joining a caravan was just as valid a means to do so in exile, if you squinted hard enough.

On this occasion, as the trade is completed and they make ready for the return journey, Fíli falls ill with a sudden and vicious sickness. The human healer tries their best, but has no idea what to do with a sick young dwarf. So his company carefully loads him into soft furs in the back of a wagon to rumble a tense journey homeward, his shield-brother Jyri throwing himself ashen-faced on their fastest pony, kicking her to a westward gallop to carry the dire news ahead.

A day from the Ered Luin Thorin and Óin fly around a bend in the road to meet them.

Fíli is pallid, eyes sunk and rolling, his golden braids limp and falling as if weighted from his skull. He burns with an internal fire. They have been feeding him drops of broth and honey water, and drops are all he will take.

Thorin orders him kept in a warmed tent in a quarantined cave; Dís is panicked and trembling, Kíli pressed scared and childlike by her side, although he is near to braiding himself. But for the sake of her youngest son she keeps her distance, requesting Óin and his assistants to attend closely to Fíli in her stead.

Óin trusts only himself to keep the deep night watch when dwarrow are more easily called back to Mahal. He first sends a weary Amblís away to sleep off her shift. Then he applies herbed compresses to Fíli’s forehead, and keeps him warm, dripping tinctures down his throat every hour, willing the sweat to come and wash away the sickness that eats at Fíli’s body.

Tonight, Fíli is mumbling through the worst yet of his fevers. His skin is near translucent, his broad dwarven stomach almost concave.

‘The dragon…’ he shivers, teeth chattering. ‘…burning…the town in flames…’

‘No, your highness,’ soothes Óin, getting up to change the compress that cools Fíli’s brow. ‘That was a long time ago now. The dragon is far from here.’

‘Mmph. Stay away… Ravenhill…’

Óin pauses in the motion of wringing out a towel, and squints as he listens. The lad in his fever was recalling tales someone had told him of their lost homeland, clearly.

‘Thorin…the ravens…’

The healer returns, frowning, to press more cool liquid to Fíli’s brow. Fíli tosses his head, and Óin’s hand holds the compress in place, allowing the herbs and oils to seep calming scents through his hair and across his temples. In doing so, his wrist comes to rest at Fíli’s left braid, and on the mithril bead that nests there, clasping the twist of silver woven through the gold.

The candlelight is low. Óin stays where he is, noting the weight of his hand has quietened the lad, his breathing coming a little more even, his temples cooled by a degree. After a time, Óin’s head nods and comes to rest on his arm.

_A raven, huge and coal-black, three streaks of uncommon silver across head and wings. It fixes him with a beady eye, and then turns beak to regard him with the other._

_From Ravenhill, whole and humming with life, he has the full view of the magnificence of Erebor, crowned with clouds and stars at dusk, the moon rising over the mountain on Durin’s Day, the scent of river, lake and stone calling to his heart._

_There is a roar, like a great army, like swoops and rushes and feathers as the ravens fly back in shifting flocks and spears, high in the sky and pouring back to the mountain from all directions, and Óin’s blood races heavy in his veins, a curious feeling of a joy and a dread all at once._

_A smaller bird perches on his hand, and fluffs its wings. It too looks at him._

_‘It is time,’ says the thrush._

‘Time,’ repeats Óin, startling himself awake, the image of the thrush and raven and the backdrop of Erebor as clean and clear in his mind as the cloth he is still holding to the boy’s forehead. He blinks, and peers at the young dwarf in astonishment. There is a healthier colour to Fíli’s cheeks and lips. The burning heat of his skin is gone, and the blanket on his chest feels sodden with sweat. Fíli’s eyelids flutter, like the wings of the thrush.

Óin frowns wonderingly. This was too sudden, and the dream too vivid. He would lay out his runes later to better read the signs. If they confirmed it...

‘I must tell Thorin,’ mutters Óin, rising to find more towels to mop away Fíli’s broken fever.

^^^

They arose out of the dream as one, Irmo drifting across the bower, Aulë extricating tendrils of purple from his beard.

He shivered, then remembered himself enough to make extra effort _not_ to fluff feathers he knew were _definitely not_ attached to his body.

~ Well, that was ridiculous. A raven? A thrush? How obscure do we have to be to do this?

~ It is the first time. You see how tending dreams is a skill unmatched.

Irmo stretched and yawned languorously, smug violet pulses making Aulë irritated.

~ Be calm, Great Smith. He wakes. You lanced a wound today.

~ I did?

~ You touched his deep mind successfully, drawing out the memories from a life already lived. And now he channels the memories himself, as if they were his own, and he has a path to follow. I would say we did well.

~ I just want to speak with him! Why can’t I just put my face in there and tell him what to do?

~ He would be driven from own his mind in fear, sent running from the path you desire. This way, what you inspire from him becomes his own intent.

The purple rolled around the Smith as he stared glumly. The colour was making him feel a little off.

~ Perhaps in time you can reveal yourself. But not yet. Already you should feel the mithril link is stronger.

Irmo coiled into form, and preened in front of a large mirror by the side of the bower.

~ Now you must go. It is almost dawn, my wife will be here soon, and I will need to explain this to her.

He shifted slightly, the purple pulsing slightly grey.

~ Come again when you are able, and we will dream you into the others as well. Who will it be next time? The stone king with his exiled heart, or the little one with a desire for elves? For that alone, believe me, your secret will be kept safe. You and yours have caught my interest, Aulë.

Grumbling as Irmo sent the lightest of iris waves to nudge him out the door, Aulë left, gripping his little ring of mithril.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And lo, thusly, Oin's sodding portents :)
> 
> Headcanon verse explanation for dwarven life passages & braidings:  
> First coming-of-age at 40, kinda like teen-hood to early 20s for humans.  
> Second coming-of-age at 80 which is also first formal braiding when dwarrow are expected to 'adult' and be full contributors as much as they are able. Say, 27-32ish for humans.
> 
> The braiding is a formality recognised by kin and clan, and describe family, craft or role, marital status, indicators of class or nobility, sexuality and gender, personal style, etc. Respected older dwarrow who are grieving spouses or have absolutely nothing to prove to anyone anymore can choose to not braid (like Dwalin and Balin), and the very elderly don't at all - they are unbraiding making ready to sleep in stone in the same way they entered, so that they wake in Mahal's Halls.


	5. Low Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nori and Kíli first meet, and in which Thorin is tested three times at the low council – or is he? Also welcome some world-building OCs, because the notion of heir apparent Thorin riding balls-out into the sunrise to mess about with dragons pretty much on his own, in context of the broader kinship system of dwarves _none of whom seemed particularly bothered about Erebor,_ deserved some HC attention. OR: The events immediately before dwarves fell through Bilbo’s door in Bag End.

In Thorin’s Halls in the Ered Luin, at the first low council meeting of the lengthening days, guild masters and officials gathered. The Halls hummed with life despite the midwinter, heavily fur-clad dwarrow pouring into the lapis and slate hued entrance halls and immediately removing their cloaks with relief, shivering gratefully in the warmth of the furnace-heated stones.

Nori lounged outside the entrance of the Audience Chamber, bluestone against his back, spinning a dagger from time to time. He was making a game of increasing the height of the blade’s twists before catching. Otherwise feigning disinterest, he watched the leaders of the four most important guilds as they made their way into the Chamber: one-armed Edri with his easy stride, small and determined Nírasj, Ulvi looking weighted down by his beard and whatever else was on his mind, and bejewelled Aoifdern.

‘Tossers,’ muttered Nori as Aoifdern sashayed by, followed closely by his own brother. He hoiked and spat loudly as an afterthought, earning himself a freezing look from Dori as the Merchant’s Guildmasters swept past and disappeared inside.

‘Did you say something?’

Nori slowly tracked his eyes to his left where a younger dwarf was looking down at him quizzically. He mentally backed up when he focused in on the dwarf’s features, but kept his dagger spinning without missing a beat.

‘Nothin’. I wasn’t speaking to you.’

The young dwarf’s mess of brown hair was kept mostly back from his eyes by a backclasp, and he was barely bearded and definitely unbraided although he looked just old enough for it. He flashed a broad, uncertain smile, taking in the flip and swoosh of the dagger, the brazen assessment in Nori’s face.

‘Kíli, son of Dís, at your service.’

‘Yeah, service. At yours. And I know who you are.’ And he did, although he’d never spoken to the kid until now. That’s what came of being the type of dwarf who mostly kept the noble Halls of the seven houses at arms’ length. And by ‘arms’ he meant a good strong mace, where he could get his hands on one. Sweet Abyss, he’d settle for a stick if it managed to fend the nobs off to a permanently safe distance.

‘Have I met you? My fault,’ the lad shrugged, pushing a wayward strand of brown out of his eyes. ‘It’s just, I’m bad with names, and there’s been a lot of new dwarves visiting the halls lately. A _lot_ more than normal.’

‘You haven’t. Nori.’

A moment passed with no response. The lad seemed to be waiting for something.

‘Brother of Dori.’

‘Oh riiight! You’re Dori’s brother! And Ori. That makes us kin!’ The young dwarf scooted down and perched beside Nori, which made him scowl briefly. ‘You live abroad, don’t you? Have you really been as far as Harad?’

Nori schooled his expression. He tipped his head back and looked down his nose at the lad, as close a version of his brother at full arrogant as he could stomach, while keeping the dagger spiralling in the air.

_Flip, flip._

After a beat he saw his little test hadn’t worked, and Kíli had not shown any sign of intimidation but rather followed the movement of the blade with brown eyes that sparked with interest. _I bet he’s goin’ to ask me to show him how it’s done_. Relenting, he sheathed it at his scuffed leather belt, slouching back against the carved blue-grey wall.

‘Yeah, I have. Few times.’

‘Mahal! I want to see the south. I’ve only been to Dunland, so far.’ The kid settled back next to him, visions of oliphaunts and fantastical desert delvings obviously parading through his mind. ‘I know all about Rhûn.’

‘You do, do you.’

‘Yes, Nírasj told me. And what of Harad? They say there’s not so many male dwarrow in the south, is that true?

Nori snorted a laugh. ‘Yeah. There’s also less bedding down in one’s own back delving, so to speak. Harad dwarves ain’t fussy for sticking to the seven lineages like northerners.’

Kíli considered this, and for a long moment Nori could tell he was no longer thinking so much about oliphaunts. Then he snapped out of it, another question mark crossing his features.

‘They say the Harad folk have the stone sense of old, of the first dwarrow to waken in the Elder Days. They say they can still walk in between, in dreams, and speak to all animals.’

_Durin’s bones._

‘Who is “they”, and what _are_ you goin’ on about?’ Nori managed, rattled.

‘Uh – ’

‘Stone sense is just sharpening up,’ he told the kid flatly, ‘Just getting good at reading the signs when you’re moving around, so you can find what you need to live.’

‘The clans really are nomadic, then?’

‘What would _you_ do if water was scarce?’ Nori soured. This kid really was sheltered.

‘Oh…’

‘Knowledge of all the holes in the rock,’ he went on by way of explanation, tapping the stone underneath him in emphasis. ‘Every pinnacled oasis. Every single stone that’s hiding a spring or even what’s absorbed so much as a drop of water, they have at it. Course, if you go past that then you get to Far Harad, and that’s all steaming hot jungle. You want strange, well strange beasts live there. Stranger than you ever saw.’ Nori didn’t know why he was still talking. The kid obviously had a glamour about him, being as he could somehow force people to put up with him long enough for a conversation. Right now, his face was just about falling out of his pretty skull, he was listening so intently.

‘It would be some awe, to witness that in the flesh…’ said the kid, and he did seem struck with reverence, seeing right through the stone of Thorin’s Halls, all the way to the far lands. Nori snorted internally, moving his gaze from the kid’s face back to the entrance to the halls. Then he started, his brows hiking at something at the edge of his vision he had only just noticed.

He kicked himself. _Sloppy._

‘Your lucky day,’ he sighed in defeat, ‘by the look of it, there’s one of them now.’ Pointing at the figure approaching from the outer halls, his eyes narrowed further when he realised incredulously and too late how familiar that walk was. _Well._ He scratched at a brow-braid, unconsciously smoothing. It was too late to hide himself. He may as well suffer it and use the situation to get the kid off his back. Probably too much to ask, but he could only try.

‘Why don’t you go and ask _her_.’

Kíli squinted. ‘Luarc? Oh, I know her, and believe me, I tried. She doesn’t talk much. Only to Balin and Dwalin, or Uncle, when she has to.’

‘…Luarc. Huh.’

They followed the figure with their eyes. She was tall for their kind, probably near Dwalin’s height, and slender, even angular. She wore a garment draped loosely around herself from ankle to shoulder, then looped over to create a hood; it was a style from her southern lands, but thickened in layers and trimmed with furs to suit the northern winter. Nori could see the ebony skin of her long-fingered hands, pink and weathered on the palms, and just make out a dark gaze when the cowl briefly turned in his direction.

‘When did she get here?’ Nori found himself wondering aloud, and immediately shut his trap, grinding his teeth for being so unguarded.

‘Last summer. She’s the new Master of the Beasts Guild. Thorin wants to expand the herds and bring in new lines so we can breed them more hardy. She took the sea road – just think, all the way from Umbar! – to Lune, Uncle paid a Corsair to sail her, and she brought goats with straight horns that can climb trees and just about walk up cliffs, and ponies that are fast and tough and can go without food and water longer, _and_ she has an eagle. I wanted an oliphaunt, but no.’ Kíli yawned suddenly. ‘Mm. Stock isn’t really my thing.’

‘What is your thing?’ said Nori distractedly, not so much indulging the lad, as filling the space with words in Luarc’s wake.

‘Archery, mainly.’

‘Yeah, I see,’ said Nori, boredly gesturing at Kíli’s shorn beard.

‘I was guilded into the stonemasons, like my da, but I’m not so good at the build like he was. I’m much better at shaping.’ Here Kíli touched the wall behind them where the stone was cut with an elegantly simple geometric design, continuing along the length of the hall’s entrance, at least ten feet high. He traced the edge of the pattern a little sadly, then brightened. ‘I can play fiddle too.’

‘That’ll keep meat on the table,’ said Nori sardonically.

Kíli blinked and gave a slow sideways glance, the tone of derision beginning to dawn on him, but then a bell sounded in the Hall.

A freckled face and determined mouth framed in light brown tufts and a guard helmet swung around the wall from inside the Chamber, searching.

‘Oh, there you are.’

‘Hey, Ebba.’

The guard was young, of age with Kíli, observed Nori. She beckoned with her axe, transmitting urgency. Nori didn’t miss the archer’s chest plate and bow arm sheath, nor the way she glanced his way to weigh him up, before her amber eyes landed back on the kid. They exchanged a quick grin.

‘Kíli! Your Uncle wants you seated.’

‘Council’s starting.’ Kíli jumped up, unsuccessfully tugging at the wrinkles in his tunic. ‘You’re coming with us aren’t you, Nori?’

The rangy dwarf nodded, stretching, and pushed himself up off the wall. ‘Wouldn’t miss the ride.’

‘Maybe you can teach me to throw daggers on the way? Then I’ll be better than my brother by the time we get to Erebor,’ the kid enthused, and slipped off to find his seat at the Council table.

Nori raised his eyes to the high ceiling, and was the last to enter the room.

^^^

The senior guildmasters and Hall officials lined the Audience Chamber. This was no grand court of Erebor. The council numbered scarcely fifty dwarrow or so, but they could not all fit around the broad lapis table seated. So they stood in loose collectives fronted by their guildleaders or senior office-holders, ranged around Thorin and his closest kin and advisers.

It was Nírasj who stepped forward first, surrounded by her stonemasons.

‘Lord Thorin, with respect, this is tactically unsound.’

A Blacklock who had migrated to the Blue Mountains after Azanulbizar to take contracts in the delving of Thorin’s Halls, Nírasj was small yet stout as Dori, the dusky taupe of her arms roped with muscle, her fully braided blue-black locks in a half-topknot held with a pale stone needle to match the circle that threaded through her septum, and the rings that edged her large ears. The rest of her braids hung, like her plaited beard studded with carved pebbles, all the way to her waist. She smiled only with her mouth, the expression never quite touching the rest of her face, her round cheeks giving only the barest suggestion of a crease at the corner of her flat eyes. When she spoke it was sharply accented and precise, tattooed lower lip a coming-of-age reminder to watch her words, mouth set in disapproval.

‘We have not offered sufficient evidence to secure the investment of their time and resources.’ She paused, meeting Thorin’s level gaze without any trepidation. ‘Lord Karr’s envoy will come, but will be deaf to us, as I informed you they would be. The Blacklocks of Rhûn have made up their minds.’

‘It is as we feared,’ stated Balin with finality. ‘If the Blacklocks withdraw their support, we cannot count on Den of the Stonefoots either. The two houses walk in step to avoid the slightest provocation to conflict.’

‘The East is not concerned with Western matters,’ added Nírasj without embellishment. ‘Rhûn is vast, from east of Dáin and Solveig’s lands to the far Orocarni; they have other borders to deal with.’

‘Is this not a Khazâd matter?’ remarked Thorin, his voice dangerously quiet.

Nori looked at the dwarf like he was an idiot, which he was only able to do because he was partly hidden from Thorin’s eyeline by a council official’s back. He wasn’t the only one to raise eyebrows, other dwarves shifting uncomfortably where they stood. _It’s been that way since Azanulbizar, you lump_ , he thought. _We all know that._ That the seven houses were unable to take back Moria together was the rust on the blade for a united Khazâd, as far as Nori was concerned. _Couldn’t work as a team if you lot was hitched at the ankles,_ he thought viciously. _Only thing that could fix it would be Durin himself. And that ain’t gonna happen, so every dwarf for themselves, then._

At the head of the table, Thorin had set his jaw. ‘That is not all Karr sent, is it?’ he continued, his features settling back into a modicum of control.

Nírasj hesitated, then continued gamely. ‘Karr has made his view known. Longbeard settlements spread to Dunland, the Iron Hills and now as far west as the Ered Luin. Karr feels that the world of the Khazâd is sufficiently balanced in Longbeard favour. In this, Den is in agreement.’

Thorin breathed in through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. He turned slightly to his sister at his left, the two mirroring eachother in deep Durin cobalt and hair of salted ebony, that worked to give a darker hue to the coolness of their eyes. From this angle, Nori could clearly see the streak of silver braided on Thorin’s right side, a weird anomaly that made the dwarf look older, and all the more irritatingly majestic in Nori’s grudging estimation. That braid swung gently as Thorin subtly shook his head, exchanging something silent with his sharp-eyed sister, and Nori could almost hear Dís’ _I told you so._

Nori was a loner by choice, but a loner well practiced in the arts of observation and quick calculation. It had kept him alive this long. And Nori knew tension when he saw it, and right now it was showing at the corner of Thorin’s eye, etched just as deeply in the forehead of his sister.

After a moment, she reluctantly laid her right forearm on the carved stone; it was a stoic declaration of support. Thorin breathed out.

‘Ulvi? The Iron Hills, then.’

The Longbeard Master Smith Ulvi bowed his head, causing the greyed rooster’s comb he wore shorn at the sides to flag and the two tight braids that governed his deeply lined brows to waver. Added to skin pitted from flying shards of hot metal and the loss of growth on his upper lip, he presented as fierce, yet permanently tired. His hands, too, were forge-scarred and huge, one of them tugging at the three great beard-braids that lay on his barrel-broad chest, at least as wide as Dwalin’s. With the other he tapped nervously at the stone.

‘Lad – Thorin. Lord Dáin’s envoys will come to represent him, along with the Lady Solveig of the Ironfists, but the raven messenger gave nothing of their intentions nor of Lord Ingi and the Stiffbeards. I still have not heard if the latter will attend.’

Thorin’s jaw clenched beneath that conspicuously shorn beard, and he nodded stiffly before moving on to the next dwarf. ‘Edri?’

‘Troghdin and the Broadbeams will be represented in full, Thorin,’ said Edri affably. Thorin’s Guild Leader of Miners and Delvers was a Broadbeam himself, with close ties to the Longbeards through marriage. He wore nondescript brown tunic and trousers, the left arm of the wool pinned at the shoulder where he had lost flesh and bone in the same mining tragedy that had taken so many of the guild decades before. His greying brown hair and beard featured nothing more than a simple plait at the back fastened by one bronze bead carved with miner’s runes, his beard parted simply in two and tucked to his belt, his leathered face and common brown eyes set with deep laugh lines. Edri’s outwardly easy nature belied a sharp wit, and an astuteness with which he conducted his political dealings in the guild and the council. It was deliberate. Many made the sore mistake of presuming his neutrality.

‘And I should think they will come,’ Edri added warmly to the rest of the gathered dwarves. ‘We’re but three day’s ride south from their delve, if they don’t show their faces to their kin my cousin can’t expect to get anything for Forge Day.’ There was a low rumble of polite laughter, even if only from dwarves grateful that the chill in the air had been but a little dissipated.

That earned a lighter nod from Thorin.

‘The Firebeards, Aoifdern?’

The Guild Leader of the Merchants rose from where they sat: a heavyset Firebeard with delicate silver-red beardplaits to their belt, and one braid coiled about their head. Their long and narrow face was smooth, their eyes glittered orange atop a nose curved with a high bridge like that of a predatory bird, above a rosebud of a mouth. Their guild masters cut a united phalanx around them, arms crossed to a dwarf, Dori’s rich scarlet robes and ostentatious plaits appearing unremarkable among the group’s finery.

‘Kaegred will come, Lord Thorin,’ they pontificated. ‘In fact, he offers the use of his larger Halls for the summit of envoys.’

‘He would,’ said Thorin shortly. Kaegred was always looking for opportunities to advance his interests among the seven houses. ‘I may be in favour of it. Send word.’

‘That should be enough for him to pledge support,’ added Aoifdern importantly. ‘In fact, he will do so, or I will be of a mind to withhold Guild price preferences to his hall.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ barked Glóin furiously. ‘Your meddling in pricing will send him to humans and elves over dwarrow, you have played that game before.’

‘Good,’ retorted Aoifdern, ‘then market prices drop and stock moves. I have no desire to discuss – ’

The room rose into uproar for a while, which wasn’t out of order in a low council meeting.

From where he was sat at a bench in the corner of the Chamber, Nori settled back to watch, flinging his elbow over an armrest. _Lords bickering,_ he thought. _Nobs playing at leader. Here’s hoping no more of the bastards come with. More for us then._ He set to what had been his favourite pastime of late: mentally calculating what was probably in the Erebor treasure rooms and divvying it out among the lowest common denominator: himself and a handful of other dwarrow. They were here now, scattered around the Audience Chamber among the council and officials in their various guilds and positions, himself the only one with no formal claim to belonging in the Ered Luin. He knew of all of them, those putting themselves forward for the Company, even if he didn’t know them all personally. That was how few they were. He grinned.

_Thirteen._

No Blacklocks or Stonefoots, then. Likely no Stiffbeards either. Nor the other Broadbeams or Firebeards, as much as Aoifdern was bullishly confident in their influence on them; despite their proximity to and alliance with the western Longbeards, he knew Kaegred to be a gambler only in matters of court. Troghdin was a pragmatist who would not risk even one of his warriors, not when his delving was the north-east most province and closest defence against warg attacks and orc raids coming in from the wastes, which had been steadily increasing over past years. _Maybe_ the Ironfists, but that would only be because of Dáin, whose Halls with Solveig were as much a rival seat of Longbeard power in the east.

 _None of these buggers want to face a firedrake._ _More for us._ That was good enough for Nori. That meant his share was a delving of his own, if he’d ever desire such a thing, that is. He just had to make it there, then get himself and Bofur and his kin out of that mountain alive.

‘Luarc!’ The name broke his reverie; Thorin was rising, eyes snapping, booming from the chest to be heard over the arguments. The rabble died down, and amid low mutterings there came a whisper of cloth as the one he called pushed herself into view. Nori saw that she had deliberately dropped her cowl; it settled about her long dark neck. Her soft tufts of hair were wound in short braids about her head, her multiple tiny beard braids striping horizontal across her leonine face from her full mouth to her ears, her skin visibly studded from neck to fingertip and beyond, with the lines and dots of the ash scars made by her people. Nori unconsciously moved a hand to his own chest.

_Luarc. Huh._

‘Dune-delve,’ muttered someone in Khuzdul, protected by the throng. Boots shifted as dwarves realised Thorin had heard; Luarc stood calmly, Nori was astonished to see. The term was ugly by intention. It implied a lack of craft and the spiritual materiality of a stone-carved home. And it equated the southern clans with an imagined absence of basic dwarvishness, an ignorant idea of savagery. Nori knew they were anything but.

‘Say that again,’ gritted a weary Thorin, ‘I promise you I will have any dwarf who dares without title and claim to this particular dûm within the hour, and you may then ask yourself if it was worth casting insult against my chosen craft Masters, in my Halls.’

Thorin took time to compose himself, then to dip his head with slow and dignified respect. Nori hadn’t seen the dwarf make that gesture to any other individual guild representative, not at this meeting, anyway. He was making his point.

Luarc gracefully returned the gesture.

‘Your Harad kin. Would the warriors have any interest in supporting our claim?’

Internally, Nori barked a laugh. _Bigger chance of me marrying an elf._

‘Interest, perhaps, Leader.’ Luarc’s voice was very soft, with subtle inflections to some consonants, and the rest flowed rich and light like warm honey. As she spoke she signed, similar to the way Bifur did, but in her case it was formality rather than compulsion. Nori saw Kíli lean forward, the kid’s ears drinking in the accent that was mostly unheard in the north.

‘Clanleaders may come, especially those who have ties to the Longbeards of long ago. But as Durin’s eyes see through mine, Erebor is a far trade, perhaps too far, and I do not have influence with all.’

‘Send word to those you most trust. With Harad, we are no longer seven houses but many nations besides, and we need any and all to be ready.’

Thorin leaned forward, tapping his forefingers. ‘I would have the Halls prepared for our absence. If – when – we proceed, my sister and the senior guild leaders will maintain the low council cycle, Nírasj and Edri as second to Dís, Ulvi to adjudicate where needed. Hulfi,’ he nodded to the scarred dwarf standing by the entrance, a broadsword at his belt and several heavily armed dwarves by his side, ‘You have Dwalin’s place as Guard Captain, Ebba and Jyri for second. Óin, I assume Amblís will be Head Healer?’

‘Aye, she is more than capable,’ said the older dwarf. Nori smirked as he caught sight of his brother ducking his head; he knew Dori had been wanting to court Amblís since before he claimed recognition as a dwarf rather than a bearer.

He addressed the room now. ‘And the rest of you will maintain order as usual,’ here he glanced between Aoifdern and Edri. ‘The Halls will be closed to outsiders, essential trade the exception. Hulfi will oversee. If any of you wish to debate what has been discussed, raise it with Balin and we will take it up next meeting. I do not need to remind you of the seriousness of this undertaking, and the secrecy with which we treat it. Speak now if you must, or swear by the truenames of your kin.’ He waited a moment, watching those gathered give nods and sign their assent.

Aoifdern cleared their throat, and looked at Edri before continuing.

‘There is, Lord Thorin, the matter of the gold.’

Thorin stiffened now, and Dís and her sons became very still. Nori leaned forward with interest.

‘Don’t you start, either of you,’ rasped Ulvi dangerously. The other Longbeards old enough to remember the razing of Erebor growled in tandem, Hulfi and Dwalin among them.

Glóin adopted the conciliatory, tedious drone he used for matters of law and ledgers. ‘Due to the nature of the Quest, a share of the gold will first be distributed equally and fairly among participants in the Quest, as provided for by contracts, to wit, with due regard for prior investment weighted with risks taken, actual injury and death – ’

‘We don’t mean that,’ Aoifdern interrupted smoothly, every word loaded. Dwalin put his hand on his axe; Hulfi’s was already there.

‘We are merely concerned, Lord,’ said Edri very lightly. 

Thorin was unmoved. ‘I know what occupies you. Shall I share your concerns with this council?’ Silence stretched. Dís and her sons stared at the table before them, their expressions hunted.

‘My grandfather is dead and his sickness passed with him,’ Thorin said tonelessly. ‘There is, however, a dragon still sitting upon the gold of our forebears and I intend to relieve the drake of his burden,’ he continued. ‘Any other comment? No?’ Dwarves once again became interested in the shuffling of their feet, Aoifdern and Edri included.

The next words spoken were harsh.

‘Then swear.’

‘The smiths support you, Thorin, of course,’ Ulvi declared roughly, then pointed downward to stone and swore in Khuzdul by the names of his parents, coupled with the _iglishmêk_ for emphasis. Aoifdern and Edri followed slowly a bare beat later, and then the voices of the others gathered swelled, the movements of their hands repeated.

Yet now it was Nírasj who remained silent, arms folded; Thorin, sweeping the room, tilted his head in the direction of the Blacklock mason.

‘We stand at this moment having travelled so far, shield-sister,’ he reminded her softly, when quiet resumed. ‘Remember what we have shaped together through steadfastness and endeavour.’

‘So why take this risk?’ Nírasj’s words cut the air, Balin sending Thorin an unreadable look from beside her. ‘Thorin. It is as you say. You led us to build a place for our home, for your people, and those of us from other clans who wished to make a new life. We _have_ made a new world, all of our own. Most of us would say that was enough.’ Balin opened his mouth, nodding –

‘We may prevail, Nírasj, but we would reclaim a greater destiny,’ said Thorin quickly, before the elder dwarf could speak.

‘The signs say it is time,’ Óin began, but was caught off guard by Thorin’s raised hand and mutterings from the assembled dwarves. Nírasj, meanwhile, had adopted an adamant posture of refusal, shaking her braid-heavy head before Thorin had even finished speaking. Nori was almost impressed.

‘How will you do that, without help from the East? Dáin only, without Ingi and those of the far Rhûn, is a chance I would think you’d be loathe to take.’ A slight crease appeared between her sharp brows while her hand opened in a sign: _Respectfully I insist._

‘We are not beholden to their choice. Others may come where they refuse, and I have no doubt I will be hearing from both Karr and Den once the mountain and its wealth is secured.’ The last brought laughter and some shouts and insults. Knowing he had won the exchange as far as the council was concerned, Thorin tilted his chin slightly, the challenge implicit.

‘Does your doubt extend to my birthright?’

Nírasj locked eyes with Dís for a bare moment; then she subsided, her head lowering. But not before Nori saw the way Dís’ eyelid had almost imperceptibly flickered.

_Interestin’._

‘Of course not, Lord Thorin.’ Then she also swore in Khuzdul, inflected by the accent of the Rhûn, by her own truename as well as that of her closest kin so as to invite no further interrogation.

Thorin placed a fist on the stone surface, a command sign. ‘Then it is confirmed. Send your ravens and make ready for the summit. Those committing to the Company,’ Thorin caught the eyes of the twelve dwarves who had indicated they would contract themselves to the journey, Balin already shuffling a pile of papers, ‘we have much to discuss. To me.’

^^^

Afterwards, the signatures on the contracts so fresh the ink was not yet dry, Thorin took drams with his sister, shield-brother and Head Advisor in his own chambers. He had already thrown back one and cradled a second, standing at the fireplace while the others sat about a small round table on iron stools; Dís curled in the armchair beside him. The firelight shuttered across the walls, and the mood was tense.

‘Nori? You have got to be kidding me,’ Dwalin’s chest near vibrated with distaste.

‘There’s a dwarf who knows something of the world. I daresay his contacts are far-ranging. He will be useful,’ Balin corrected.

‘He would’ve been more useful trained so we can keep him close to hand, but he refused it, remember? On the grounds that he “doesn’t do for nobs”.’ Dwalin punctuated his point by bringing his small tumbler of spirit and spice solidly to the table. ‘I don’t trust him, I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

‘He will be held in check by his family, Dori is strong-minded and committed to the quest.’

‘Strong enough to keep that one in line? I doubt it. He’s slippy.’

‘Well, brother, I’m far less concerned about a travelling tinker who knows how to use knives in a tight corner than a miner, a former mason and a merchant’s cook, all of whom have spent most of the past few decades very comfortable under stone…’

‘They can hold their own,’ interjected Thorin, turning his tumbler and watching the amber liquid reflect the firelight. ‘Bofur and Bombur both took guard training as journeymen. And you know what their cousin sacrificed. Given the loyalty they’ve shown our family I’ll not refuse the three of them.’ He quietly addressed the last to his sister.

‘So much time has passed,’ Dís murmured. ‘To me, their loyalty will never be in question.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten that, lass,’ replied Balin gently. ‘Bifur is not the dwarf he once was, however.’

‘They’ll need to get road fit,’ Dwalin jiggled a leg, as if restless to begin. ‘I’ll start with them next week. The kid with the books, too. I’ll get the lads with Jyri and Ebba to put them through their paces, see what needs working on.’

‘You’ll take Nori as well,’ said Thorin, and it was final. ‘You’ll take everyone on contract. We all need to be ready.’

‘Aye,’ Dwalin looked like he’d just sucked on a lemon. ‘Fine.’

In the silence that followed, Balin lifted his dram to the firelight and appeared to speak to it.

‘Thorin.’

The Lord of the Halls straightened, and waited. The temperature lowered. This was what they had gathered in private to have out.

‘Nírasj has the right of it. We are not enough. You know this. Thirteen dwarrow is…’ Balin made a vague and stupefied gesture with his hand.

‘…so very few.’

‘A deathwish,’ grunted Dwalin.

‘Aye, brother. We may as well lay ourselves in stone now and be done with it.’

At this, Dís chewed on a lip, tugging on the fine curls at her chin.

‘You know another summit will not make an edge of difference,’ the older dwarf continued. ‘If you want an army, we will need more time, and a lot more clout than we have.’

Thorin swirled his tumbler.

‘Laddie, why don’t we – ’

‘We have Tharkûn.’

Dwalin looked up sharply, and Balin’s mouth opened a little.

‘The grey wizard?’ the elder dwarf frowned.

‘Yes. Not a word of this touches another’s ear, until the Company departs these Halls.’

The brothers Fundinul exchanged a tentative glance; Dís sighed deeply and sank back into her chair. Balin caught her eye. ‘Did you know of this?’

‘I did,’ she said drily, but her words belied a tension. ‘My brother rehearses his theatrics for the great court of Erebor.’

‘It is no longer my intention to try and bring down the beast outright, if indeed it is still there,’ said Thorin calmly. ‘An open attack would be a dire risk, even with the might of several houses combined. So,’ he sat back and opened his hands, ‘…since they will not assist us with sufficient force, then I want the Khazâd to look away in shame.’

‘And that is exactly what they will do if they believe it a futile gamble…one that they refused to aid. Affording our actions the cover of secrecy and stealth,’ said Balin, slowly, turning it over in his mind. ‘Laddie…’ He looked up, his eyes suddenly sharp. ‘Nírasj’s show of doubt at the council, surely not…’ his eyes flicked to Dís for confirmation, and then widened.

‘She did well,’ assented Thorin, and Dís inclined her head. ‘She had to be seen to resist with reason, and I to dismiss her.’

‘And the summit?’

‘For the look of it,’ Thorin said, forthright. ‘They think me reckless,’ he added, and gave a flash of a smile. The energy and openness in it gave Dwalin a sudden heaviness of heart; here was a glimpse of the young warrior prince of Erebor, unbowed by firedrakes and orcs and an oaken shield, unbent by the toil and responsibility of years, a memory of an age ago.

The expression was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

‘I already know they will not pledge to me. I am not my father.’

'You are neither your grandfather,' finished Balin firmly, referring to Aoifdern's provocation. The elder adviser lit up with a new respect as he regarded the younger dwarf.

‘Still, how will a cloak of silence help but thirteen dwarrow?’

‘You would be more if you took me,’ Dís said waspishly. ‘Nírasj could come, and in her absence the mason’s guild would – ’

Thorin growled, and the sons of Fundin mentally backed away. This looked to be well-trodden ground between siblings, to which cousins had no business attempting to navigate.

‘We have discussed this, the lads are too young to hold the council together. I need you here, without us the dwarrow of this hall look only to you.’

‘They are too young to go along with your notions of duty and revenge! For all I could stop them,’ she spat bitterly.

‘But they are not too young to deserve their inheritance,’ Thorin put his dram down, and moved quickly to kneel by his sister, taking her hand. They had let too many words pass between them on the matter. He tried a different approach, now.

‘Their home is here, nadad, the Ered Luin,’ she told him, the flash in her ice-blue eyes softened by the hand she allowed him to take. ‘When will you realise that. They grew up in a different world. They are _not us_.’

‘You are right,’ he returned softly. ‘They are not us. Your son is no Lord of a humble council in an inconsequential corner of the Khazâd. You’ve known this since he was small.’ She bit her lip, remembering Thrór.

‘Your son is meant to claim his place alongside the greatest dwarrow kings to ever be raised. In his birthright, there in that Mountain.’

Her eyes burned in silent accusation. He pressed his forehead to her hands, then looked up at her in earnest.

‘I mean to be the doorkeeper to his kingdom, and his shield-guard for any beast we must remove,’ his eyes narrowed. ‘Beginning with a drake.’

Balin cleared his throat.

‘Thorin. What did the wizard say to you?’

‘That he will assist us as best he can, and he will find us a thief to steal away the Arkenstone. And then,’ Thorin stood, briefly squeezing his sister’s shoulder, ‘then the Khazâd will come to us.’

‘And where will we find this burglar?’ said Balin, deep in thought. ‘I confess I cannot think of any in the seven clans who would hold such a craft and some inkling of loyalty to the Longbeards, perhaps besides Nori, and he’s – ’

‘No,’ said Dwalin and Thorin together, but for different reasons. Thorin took a seat, and poured another round of drams.

‘He thinks he has found one, in the Shirelands of the halflings.’

‘Mahal’s beard. A halfling, eh?’

‘Yes,’ said Thorin, impassive. ‘We will see.’

^^^

A day came that Aulë reappeared at Irmo’s bower, but this time he was not alone. The purple waft wasn’t fazed, and bowed respectful tendrils in their direction.

~ Ah, Yavanna too? Be very welcome, Green Lady. But why do you also come for the dream?

Yavanna felt comfortable and at home in the Gardens. She climbed easily to the bower, and laid herself beside Irmo, who trailed a tendril across her dappled-green cheek. Aulë grumpily clambered up too.

~ I have seen a trail that my husband, in his haste, had overlooked.

~ I did not. I knew. But it is no concern of mine; the hobbit is far from what decides the fate of my children.

~ We shall see.

~ You realise that is, almost word for word, what Thorin said.

~ Exactly, my husband.

~ When you two are both quite done…

Yavanna smiled, and allowed Irmo to wind gently through the coils of her own hair, even as she watched them wend through her companion’s thick rust iron beard. She reached over and linked her little finger with that of Aulë, the ring of mithril between them and an acorn in her other hand, and spoke again.

~ I think it prudent to see that his memory is set into their dreams, a light to follow. One who was with them every step of the way.

Irmo lulled them in notes of lilac and lavender, and the three fell easily into dream.

^^^

Time passed quickly. Events unfolded, just the same as they did across countless Spheres of reality, including in the very many that Aulë was desperate to avoid.

Thorin’s Halls made ready.

Fíli and Kíli first went south and west to Kaegred’s Halls to make a final petition to the Lord before the summit, and he was full of fair words which in time came to nothing but empty air.

Bombur took a quick trip with his wife to see her kin Troghdin in the north, and reported no luck moving the heart of the normally amenable leader, although he too promised envoys to the meeting.

Nori and Bofur sent ravens to stir the fires of kinship in Dunland. When the return message came, Nori’s brief for Thorin was short and to the point.

‘Waste of time. The Dunlanders don’t give a shit.’

The ravens came and went, to the far eastern and southern reaches of the Khazâd.

Soon enough, envoys travelled west and north, and gathered for the summit with Thorin in Kaegred’s Halls. There was a day of fine long speeches diced with cutting insinuations, as Thorin had expected to endure. Meanwhile, the rest of the Company trained together, camping in a Longbeard way-hall on the edge of the Gulf of Lune, to all watching eyes looking like a group of mercenary guards embarking on the spring caravan season. They stood ready for Thorin’s word to continue their journey on to Bag End.

The summit concluded, and no army was raised. The envoys returned to their various delves, and the moon circled Arda.

Then one day, a lone raven flew to alight on a fir tree that stood outside a mountain pass at the edge of the Lune’s lapping waters. Bifur saw it first, laying down his fishing rod, stretching out his hand for the raven. Beside him, Bofur carefully unwrapped the small piece of parchment tied to its leg. He read the runes, straightened his hat, and they jogged quickly back to camp. 

In a great many Spheres, the Company showed up at the green door at Bag End. Sometimes they came all together, sometimes in small groups, but always bookended by Gandalf and Thorin.

In all of those Spheres, when the others asked him of the meeting of envoys, and what news of Dáin and by extension the East, Thorin confirmed it with the same four weighted words.

‘They will not come.’

It was never any different. Repeated again and again across all the potential Ways and Spheres of Eä, when the envoys gathered from the seven houses and the far southern clans at Thorin’s request, not a single one came forward to pledge support to the grandson of the last ruler of Erebor, nor recognise that a Lord of Longbeard refugees could ever now be king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU world scaffolded and seeds planted. Next chapter we join the Company and it’s all in – the second time round – for Erebor.
> 
>  _OCs intro’d in this chapter:_  
>  Amblís: Senior healer, second to Óin. Longbeard.  
> Aoifdern: Guildleader of the Merchant’s Guild in Thorin’s Halls (nb and ‘starstone’ or third gender: they/them). Firebeard.  
> Ebba: A guard and archer apprenticed to Hulfi in Thorin’s Halls, and Kili’s shield-sister. Firebeard.  
> Edri: Master Miner and guildleader of the Miners and Delvers in Thorin’s Halls (delvers = engineers). Broadbeam.  
> Hulfi: Guard Captain second to Dwalin in Thorin’s Hall’s. Ulvi’s first cousin. Longbeard, came from Erebor.  
> Jyri: A guard apprenticed to Hulfi in Thorin’s Halls, and Fili’s shield-brother (nb: he/him, they/them). Longbeard, parents came from Erebor.  
> Luarc: Master of the Beasts Guild, Thorin’s Halls. A recent migrant from the nomadic Harad dwarf clans, who operate on a tribal system. They are only loosely affiliated with the old seven houses, which they believe are tainted and impure by division. Regardless of their ancestral origins, alongside and sometimes more than Mahal the Maker, they revere Durin as ‘Stonechild’ or ‘First Dreamed in Stone’.  
> Nírasj: Master Stonemason and guildleader of the Stonemason’s Guild in Thorin’s Halls (collectively includes architects, builders and artisan stoneworkers). Blacklock. Kili is also part of this guild, as his father was. Has a lot of history with the Durins.  
> Ulvi: elder Master Smith and guildleader of the Smiths Guild in Thorin’s Halls. Hulfi’s first cousin. Longbeard, came from Erebor. 
> 
> _Mentioned: the leaders of the remaining six of the seven houses_  
>  Lady Solveig of the Ironfists, married to Dáin of the Longbeards, their Halls in the Iron Hills in the western end of the Rhûn.  
> Lord Den of the Stonefoots, one of the houses in the Orocarni mountains in the far Rhûn.  
> Lord Ingi of the Stiffbeards, living in the Iron Hills in the western end of the Rhûn.  
> Lord Kaegred of the Firebeards, who live in the Ered Luin south and west of Thorin’s Halls.  
> Lord Karr of the Blacklocks, one of the houses in the Orocarni mountains in the far Rhûn.  
> Lord Troghdin of the Broadbeams, living in the northern Ered Luin.
> 
> Also: AU Dori is gender-fluid, was born biologically female and currently identifies as male.


	6. Halflings, and Half Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we spend time with sister-sons because dreams get weird. Also in which cracks begin to show, and a hobbit and a former shield-maid eat cram and question what on Arda has happened to their lives. Contains _Iglishmêk,_ gratis.

‘I like him. I wasn’t sure of him at first, but he’s alright. Pity he’s not coming along with us.’

‘Oh, give over Kee. You liked him straight away.’

Fíli offered the pipe he had packed and lit to his brother, and Kíli took an appreciative draft as he eased back on the grassed outer wall of the hobbit’s smial. Looking up, he scouted the night for the stars that had guided their way from the Ered Luin. He crowed softly in triumph when he found a spark from Mahal’s forge, following its brief but bright trajectory across the sky.

‘I gave him a once-over, did you see? “Stay wary even of people close to the ground like us,”’ cheeked Kíli as he quoted, roughing an accent to sound like a dwarf several decades older and about an octave more crotchety than he, which was helped somewhat by the pipe smoke. His sideways grin drew his brother out to pick up the charade; Fíli winked and drew an invisible circlet around his head with his thumb, adopting the chest-deep rumble of a heavy baritone, his fingers dangling from his own chin in a sham beard.

‘My Lord Marshal of the King’s Guard. Your advice to this Court will be duly considered, in accordance with blah, blah, blah.’ As Kíli flourished his pipe like a sword and bowed, Fíli mimed unrolling and reading an imaginary parchment to an unseen court. Having come to grave and lordly conclusion, he scrunched it to a decisive pretend ball and threw hard in the direction of Bilbo’s fence, the force of it landing him on his side.

They cackled, shoulders colliding, Kíli choking a little on his pipeweed and sending it away from his lips in hurried white clouds.

‘Did Dwalin say that?’ Fíli asked rhetorically and in his regular register once he’d got his breath back. ‘You know they’re all suspicious of other free folk, longshanks and normal alike. Humans, elves, hobbits.’

Undaunted, Kíli blew a thoughtful smoke-ring. It dissipated, star-ward, somewhere above their heads.

‘Remember when I saw those elves in the distance, at the Dunland summer caravan? I wonder if we’ll meet any.’

‘I hope we don’t. Looks like Thorin’s finding it hard enough with the hobbit.’

‘I saw that. But, Balin told us how _humans_ treated him, Uncle, Amad and the others when they were on the Great Walk, after the dragon. I can understand being careful about it, but ‘s not right to be so, so – ’ the young dwarf screwed his face up in thought.

‘There’s the Kíli I know. Go on then, spit it out.’

‘Thorin’s like this,’ Kíli decided, grabbing Fíli’s hand and into it making a rude little movement with two knuckles, the choice of tunnel _iglishmêk_ prompting a chuckle from his brother. There were multiple meanings. One was a slur, _Cumbersome axe with two faces_ , and another, an admonishment: _Mend your own mattock before fixing at mine_.

‘Sometimes I don’t understand him. With all this going on for Erebor, the journey, taking back our rightful home – ’

‘ – our inheritance,’ Fíli added quietly, ever uncomfortable with the word.

‘Right. It’s as if he can’t find it in himself to make room for others,’ said Kíli glumly, thinking of those bare-jawed, willowy wood elves and the exotic timber longbows they’d carried so gracefully, silhouetted against the rising firemoon. ‘I realised it when I went to Dunland the first time,’ he pointed at Fíli with the pipe, ‘and I know you’ve thought it too. Most people, even longshanks, they just want a safe place for their people to live out their lives. Never mind if below or above the ground.’

Fíli frowned. ‘I’ll allow that for halflings, but what’s safe for an elf usually means dwarves out of sight and mind, and for a human, getting the best dwarven blades for a tenth of their value. Uncle's made it clear – ’

‘Mahal knows, we’re so few,’ Kíli pressed his point. ‘Nírasj said it. If we stay closed and separate from eachother and from the world, like so many burrows full of winter hedgehogs, I don’t see how we can win back a whole mountain from a dragon. I mean, not even Dáin’s lot could be pulled from their delvings for Uncle, blunt all their blades.’ He looked determined. ‘There’s towns along the way. Cities, even. Whole kingdoms! Why _can’t_ we seek other allies?’

‘Hold on, I thought we were talking about hobbits. Are you suggesting we go beyond the Khazâd? Kíli, dwarrow _tried._ We’ve been trying ever since we were almost cast straight back to stone. Thorin is right to mistrust longshanks. The elven king – ’

‘Yes, yes, the stories,’ said Kíli impatiently. ‘But the world is better now, surely. Better than some horrible elf Uncle knew once.’

‘Thorin’s driven, is all,’ said Fíli, more than a little defensive. Then he relented. They were both aware enough of the weight their Uncle had borne for longer than they’d been alive. There was no point making effort to excuse his fundamentally distrusting nature, especially if there was not a thing they could do to change it. There was less point in giving voice to the smaller, tightly wrapped truth – that their Uncle was a warrior heir turned stoic smith, herder of dwarrow, less a fae tale and more flesh, bone and permanently tired, all but ignored by a Khazâd that had long since moved on from Erebor. And that this burden was Fíli’s to receive one day. If they survived and succeeded in the quest, that is, and he almost clung to how scant that chance was. For if they did – he blanched a little at the thought – then one day, he would indeed have to be king.

Fíli tried to put it from his mind. ‘“This quest, for Thorin, is as stone for all dwarrow”,’ he added heavily, letting out a sigh. ‘Dwalin said that too. “There’s no getting away from it, and it’ll swallow us all at the end”.’

‘Umm,’ Kíli drew at the pipe for a long moment. They sat in silence for a while, passing the pipe back and forth, lingering in the soft haze that accompanied the smoke.

‘Anyway, good pipeweed, this hobbit,’ mumbled Kíli in contentment. ‘Good food.’

‘More than that.’

‘Hm?’

‘I mean, about Bilbo,’ said Fíli contemplatively, clasping his fingers across his ribs and looking out across the Shire valley. Something else had been tugging at his mind all evening, something he didn’t really know how to put into words. He stepped around it carefully. ‘It does seem hasty not to give him a chance...’

‘No argument from me.’

‘…but I wonder if that feeling’s mutual, I don’t think Bilbo’s comfortable with Thorin either – ’

‘Who is?’ interjected Kíli, shrugging.

‘ – yet Gandalf recommended him. The wizard must know that there is more to the hobbit.’

‘Ah, ah! _Nê ikrid ûdar!_ Never trust a wizard,’ grinned Kíli.

‘Says the dwarf whose first words to Tharkûn were “can I have a go of your staff?”’ deadpanned Fíli briefly, not allowing his brother to derail his thinking. ‘…We do need someone small and quick. He has good sense, I think. He’s been hospitable, all things considered…’

‘The plumbing,’ allowed Kíli, sensibly.

‘…so he has a sense of honour, or at least civility – ’

‘Bit of a fusspot,’ Kíli pointed out.

Fíli nodded, ‘ – and that counts for something, it shows a spine, and courage of a sort. He’s not afraid to speak up. He’s clever enough, the way he was asking questions. And he doesn’t seem too upset by Dwalin…’ he trailed off.

‘See, that’s why you’re going to be king,’ said Kíli, waving the pipe around in the air. ‘Going through each part of the whole thing, like you do.’

Fíli scoffed lightly, as much in consternation as affection. Then he hesitated. His brother sensed it and glanced sideways, curious, as Fíli cleared his throat.

‘You’ll take that back forever, once you hear what I’m going to say next.’

‘What? Tell me,’ urged Kíli, sitting up now and turning to fully face his brother, resting the pipe on his knee. He smirked. ‘Can’t be as shocking as when Aévr _and_ his sister let you kiss them in the courting tunnels.’

‘Oh, for Mahal’s sake, I’m being serious,’ said Fíli in exasperation. Kíli knew enough to figure when his brother drew the line on his teasing, and this time he decided not to push it. His grin softening to a look of concern, he tried, ‘Come on then. Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

Fíli looked at him solemnly, blue eyes ranging across his brother’s expectant face.

‘Nadad, don’t laugh.’

‘That’s not worrying at all.’

‘Really. Don’t. Because I’ve dreamed about him.’

‘Who, Aévr?’

‘No.’ Fíli worried at his lip for a moment, then said it, very softly, so his brother had to lean in and ask him to repeat.

‘Bilbo.’

He watched Kíli’s mouth fall open to form a bewildered, uneven shape.

‘Wh – what?’

‘I’ve dreamed about Bilbo,’ said Fíli more firmly, ‘I’ve seen him in my mind. His face, his hair. This place. And I _know_ he’s good, and I _know_ he’s supposed to come with us.’ He shifted uncomfortably, shaking his head. ‘I can’t explain it, and it sounds foolish, but – ’

‘Mithril shirt,’ muttered Kíli under his breath, staring out across the valley.

Now it was Fíli’s turn to double take. ‘ _What_ did you say,’ he half-whispered, clutching his brother’s shoulder, his mind reeling at the words as if the pipeweed and its effects had suddenly and thoroughly exited his blood. His eyes were wide, shaking his brother a little too hard in seeking an answer. ‘ _What?!_ ’

Kíli pushed his hand away and looked at him. ‘Mithril shirt,’ he repeated meaningfully. ‘I’ve dreamed about Bilbo too. Like tonight. The singing – ’

‘What…’ breathed Fíli, ‘Even the knives – ’

‘Yes, and the forks and Thorin’s song – ’

‘And the doilies?’

‘Yes!’ nodded Kíli excitedly, ‘and his mother’s glorybox…’

His brother clutched his hand, ‘His _feet_ – ’

‘…and the mithril shirt!’ shrieked the two together in a shouted whisper.

Blue eyes stared at brown, overawed.

Fíli breathed out at last, passing a hand over his moustache-braids. ‘When did you first dream of him?’

‘I’m pretty sure it was the night we left the Ered Luin. You?’

His brother shook his head in confusion. That didn’t add up. ‘Since my braiding. That’s over two years. And I thought I’d dreamed about the Company too, but then I wondered if I had mixed my memories.’

‘Hm,’ Kíli bent over, scraping out the pipe for another session. ‘Are you going to tell Uncle about this?’

‘I don’t know that we’ll be believed.’

‘Gandalf?’

‘We can’t tell the wizard, or anyone else, and not tell Thorin.’

‘Right.’ Kíli lit the pipe using flint and steel from his tinderbox. ‘It’s just us, then.’

Fíli assented cautiously. ‘We’ll tell if the dreams don’t stop, or we learn what this means.’

His brother took a deep, unhurried drag. ‘So, what do we do about Mister Boggins?’ He slouched back against the wall and heaved a sigh, exhaling pipeweed and adrenalin. ‘How do we get him to take the contract?’

‘Baggins,’ corrected Fíli automatically. ‘We don’t have to. He will come.’

Kíli nodded slowly at the conviction in his brother’s voice. He felt it too. Despite easily liking the hobbit on first meeting, it was unnerving, this trust in a total stranger.

‘In fact,’ continued Fíli, ‘I’d put a wager to it.’

‘With Nori?’ Kíli hooted in delight, ‘You’re on. And when he does?’

‘We watch him. We see what he’s all about, and make sure he gives no grief nor comes to it, by the Company or otherwise,’ Fíli grunted as he also relaxed back, relieved to share the burden with his brother. ‘It seems right, and important.’ He looked askance at the pipe in Kíli’s hand.

‘Are you going to leave any for me?’

Kíli passed the pipe, and they sank into a reverie in the crisp spring night of the Shire.

^^^

Thorin turned away from the window as the voices quieted. Left alone in the halfling’s sitting room, the other dwarves having stumped away to sleep in the guestrooms or sit in the kitchen polishing off Bilbo’s port and preserves, he had sat with his own pipe by the fireplace and had heard the whole exchange.

It wasn’t so much his nephews’ youthful blitheness and their infuriating loose tongues, sitting outside and above ground blagging aloud when anyone could be listening. Nor the troubling hint of inverted loyalty in not immediately speaking their minds to him. Nor was it anything they’d said about his character, unaware of his presence. He knew their sheltered minds. And he knew himself, besides. Of himself, he thought far worse.

No, it was another discomfort that set the bread and broth in his stomach to churning.

It was that he’d dreamed of Bilbo’s face, too. And he didn’t know why.

Soft feet plopped along the corridor, and stopped at the entrance to the room.

‘Um. I can show you to your guestroom, er, Thorin?’ said the hobbit, straight back and tousled head angled slightly away, unsure, as if he expected to be immediately dismissed.

‘Yes. Thank you,’ spoke Thorin stiffly, as the hobbit pursed his lips, then paused.

‘I’m, I’m sorry, you know. About your quest. It’s just out of the question.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Thorin, and without another word rose to follow the burglar to the guestroom. They said goodnight with barely a nod. Any farewell was a waste of breath, thought Thorin. He knew deep in his chest that it wasn’t the last he’d see of the halfling, as surely as his nephews had known, a knowledge that gave him little comfort as he removed his boots and lay down on the small soft bed in the hobbit’s house, to try and sleep without dreams.

^^^

It felt like Thorin had been in a mood with Fíli and his brother since they’d left the Shire, and it had worsened the evening before when they’d camped in earshot of orcs, their little joke with Bilbo falling flat on its face against Balin’s story. They’d both thought nothing of the exchange, it was just a way to swap some stories and light teasing over the campfire with new friends. But they’d frightened and embarrassed Bilbo, and worse, made him feel small, and to top it off Thorin was in a strop with them. Kíli had been shamefaced the following morning and tried too hard to make amends, so now Bilbo was mostly avoiding them.

 _It’s because Amad’s not here,_ thought Fíli as he laid out his bedroll between Ori’s and Kíli’s. She would know how to handle the hobbit, or at the very least how to draw Thorin out of his strange temper.

Ori’s bedroll was empty; he was learning watch duties.

His brother, however, was already sound asleep and twitching a little, the fingers of his right hand crooking as if he were pulling back the string of his bow. Or maybe…

Fíli bent closer, squinting, the better to see in the half-light.

 _She-elf_ , signed Kíli in his sleep, smiling a little. The literal signing was _bare-face tall woodland she_. Fíli guffawed under his breath. Dreaming of that caravan, no doubt.

 _Firemoon_ signed Kíli, and Fíli grinned. He knew his brother.

_She-elf, firemoon, fire hair… it burns…_

_Amrâlimê…_

‘Whoops, too much information,’ muttered Fíli, a trifle embarrassed. Earnest desire to know more of other free peoples was one thing, but Kíli’s dreams were heading into unchartered territory as far as Fíli was concerned. Pulling his eyes away, he turned his back and settled into his bedroll. He listened to his brother’s fingers move against his blanket in the darkness for a moment longer, then kicked a leg, knocking Kíli’s shin just enough to disturb without waking.

‘Hmph,’ sighed Kíli in his sleep, rolling over, and then, observed Fíli gratefully, he was still.

^^^

~ Stop it. Whatever it is you’re doing, Irmo, stop it right now.

Aulë hoisted himself off the bower, landing lightly on the pads of his feet and immediately swivelling to throw an accusatory finger at the vibrating purple cloud. Yavanna remained atop the soft cushions, lazily rolled on her side, idly flicking at the curls that fell in a pool of moss around her.

The purple wisps floating above her made the suggestion of a shrug.

~ Aulë, I do nothing. Your little dwarf is drawing on the deep memories of the last days of his other life. We cannot alter what is most important to him.

~ I meant to impress upon him the urgency of the Quest, not that icy, be-tinselled, geriatric recluse of a pointy-eared Elven King’s Captain. What’s _she_ got to do with anything?

Irmo roiled somewhat, and Yavanna sighed resignedly beneath him.

~ She is the strongest memory of his final days.

The two Valar on the bower realised they had formed the words at the same time, and both looked towards eachother, hazel eyes laughing into violet. Feeling left out, Aulë’s pout grew longer.

~ Do not mock me. She cannot help him, why are we wasting our time?

~ How do you know she plays no part?

The Smith threw his hands up in despair and stalked up and down the room, yanking the mithril ring from his finger and waving it about.

~ This is ludicrous. I cannot speak with them, the mithril link is tenuous, Thorin’s dreams are tossed about with gold and the halfling, and Fíli’s are a maelstrom that cloud like mist in the Halls of Mandos, of all the irrelevant things. And I cannot get Kíli to put that she-elf from his mind. We are lost. I cannot heal this.

~ You are mistaken.

Irmo cascaded down from the bower, wending his way to Aulë’s feet where he coiled like a nebulous snake around the Great Smith’s ankles, spiralling up around his thigh muscles, torso and beard until he was staring him in the face.

~ Listen to me. We have discovered a light that burns bright for Kíli. Of all the jumbled images from the last day of his life, she is the strongest. We cannot let that fade; we must allow it to flourish. If it fades, which it will in time, we lose the deep drive within him, that subconscious knowledge of the right path forward. He needs her, Aulë. He needs the desire. Trust me.

Irmo blinked violet.

~ And Kíli is not the only one.

Aulë was doubtful. He looked past Irmo to where Yavanna had sat up on the bower, chewing on a lip. Irmo wafted away, a little disconsolately.

~ You cannot control this. I told you. You must allow. This is not the craft of steel or marble, my Lord Maker. This is water on stone over an age.

Yavanna’s voice was low, but confident.

~ Or roots through granite, my husband.

~ You underestimate the density of this particular granite –

Aulë turned away in disgust, his voice roughening to a growl.

~ – and we don’t have an age. We have but _months._

He stomped away from the bower, violet coursing gently in his wake.

~ Nevertheless. Allow them their desires. Let the cracks become grooves. Water finds its way.

^^^

Fíli woke early and before dawn, sweat beading on his forehead.

It had happened _again._ How many nights had it been, now? They were still moving through the veldt valleys and forests that transitioned to broad rolling country east of the edge of the halfling’s lands. Fíli had barely had a full night’s sleep in all that time. The inside of his skull itched during the day, his eyes were as files on rusted iron, and his mind felt heavy and clouded. Something had to give.

He struggled to free himself quietly from his bedroll. Beside him, Kíli sprawled on his back with his hair messed over his eyes and mouth slack and snoring. The others in their bedrolls were quiet in sleep.

Glóin sat with Dwalin on watch at the far end of the camp, the two acknowledging him with a brief sign when Fíli rustled out of his blankets and moved to the campfire embers. He stretched stiffness from his arms, scuffing a booted toe into the coals to roll them to life.

‘Nephew.’

Thorin stepped from the dim shadows, eyes as hooded as his own. Fíli watched his Uncle’s fingers as he re-wove a temple braid tighter, beside the lines that in the half-light ran deep at the corners of his eyes. ‘Too restless to sleep?’

‘Dreams,’ said Fíli before he could stop himself, disquiet writing itself on his face.

‘Oh?’ said Thorin, looking him over. ‘The waking fright.’

‘Near to,’ admitted Fíli reluctantly. _I’ve started now,_ he thought, resigned to it, _I may as well finish._

‘In one I’m alone, in a place with mist every way I turn. You and Kíli are there, somewhere close, but shadowed by that mist so that I cannot find you.’ Fíli hugged himself and toed at a wayward coal, scuffing it back to the pit. ‘It feels _final_. And so real, Uncle. I’m not exactly afraid, but I find my heart heavy with it when I wake.’

Thorin said nothing, but allowed his nephew to hesitantly continue, giving the sign that he was listening.

‘Sometimes there are just images, mixed up in my mind. Shades of mithril. Ruins atop a mount appearing from the mist, and ravens again.’ Fíli twisted his mouth a little. ‘And gold.’

‘We all dream of gold,’ said Thorin distantly, lifting his eyes to the horizon. The sky in the east was beginning to lighten.

‘Not all.’ Fíli’s attention was drawn to the far end of the camp, where a small figure was rubbing his eyes of sleep. He watched Bilbo clamber unsteadily to his feet and fastidiously begin to straighten and roll his bedding.

‘I have dreamed about _him_ too, Thorin. It’s strange. He appears like a light.’ Following Fíli’s gaze, his Uncle’s face darkened a little when it settled on the hobbit. Bilbo didn’t seem to be aware of them watching, turning to give the profile of his beardless, smooth skin, as he used his hands to tame the tousle of his slept-in hair, and tug the creases from his neatly folded jacket.

‘This is a foolish fancy, something your brother would come up with. I would not have expected it of you, nephew.’

Fíli frowned and said nothing. When next he spoke, Thorin’s tone was pitched cooler. ‘Your mind plays games in sleep. It speaks back to you of the peril we have embarked upon.’

‘I can believe that, but what possible explanation is there of seeing him in dreams, long before I ever met him?’

‘Fíli. You’ve passed many times through the halfling’s Downs to and from Dunland. These are but memories.’ Fíli couldn’t tell if Thorin’s patience with his nephew ran thin and sharp under the surface, or was simply the voice of a dwarf with too little sleep, too much earth to move and no morning brew in his belly.

‘Perhaps you came upon a kinsman of his at Michel Delving, or Bree.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ murmured Fíli, unconvinced; he moved to hoist cut wood to the fire and pack it with kindling. Picking up the kettle from where it sat atop a cook-stone, he gave it an experimental swish to check the water level. It hung heavy; someone had filled it from the brook in the night. With his boot he pushed the cook-stone closer into the stoking coals, and sat the kettle atop to boil water.

His Uncle paused a moment longer, then said bluntly, ‘I trust Tharkûn’s choice was founded on good sense, rather than on the fickle whims of dreams and halflings.’ Before Fíli could reply, Thorin turned his back and headed in the direction of the ponies.

Fíli breathed out slowly, then began rifling through the sack of provisions for the tea leaves and ground morning beans. The sky was definitely lighter now, and the grumbling and gathering of movement from around the camp suggested the rest of the Company was beginning to wake.

‘Good morning, um, prince – ’

The hobbit stood awkwardly at the edge of the cook-fire, his eyes puffed and bleary with sleep.

‘Just Fíli. The morning is clear and fine, and I warrant we’ll be on our way after breakfast with no problems.’ Fíli was struggling to wrangle the pack of dark tea leaves with his broad fingers. Someone had tied the leather pouch too tight the day before. He picked uselessly at the leather string.

‘Would – would you like me to help you with that? Please, I’d be very happy to.’

Fíli observed Bilbo’s earnest expression, then passed the pack over without a word. He watched as the hobbit’s fingers quickly and deftly found a looseness in the knot.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked once Bilbo was done. He rummaged again among the provisions. ‘There’s cram. Here you go.’

Bilbo gratefully reached over to take the cram the dwarf offered, just as his stomach growled long and loud.

‘Thank you, your high – er, thank you Fíli. I have some dried fruit and nuts to share, if you’d like.’

The dwarf nodded. ‘If you can brew the tea, I’ll see to the ground beans. Dwarves behave like wargs with sore teeth without one or the other.’

‘Hobbits too,’ Bilbo tried offhandedly, ducking his head. As if he had ever encountered a warg to know how such a creature would behave.

 _Don’t be a fool,_ he told himself with annoyance, then tried to distract himself from his burning cheeks by getting to work, measuring out the black smoked tea quickly, and chewing off a mouthful of the waybread. He tried not to appear too eager in front of the young blonde dwarf, who still eyed him curiously from time to time over the steaming kettle.

He’d noticed Thorin and Fíli looking at him just now. He’d seen the ice in the older dwarf’s gaze and the way he seemed to watch him for too long, dropping eye contact quickly when Bilbo inadvertently looked his way, avoiding him altogether when he saw him approach.

_Does he think me a mistake?_

The Took and the Baggins within tussled as he tried to decide if it was terribly demeaning to suggest he was trying to demonstrate his worth to Thorin’s heir, in lieu of ever doing so with the leader of the Company. _Thorin’s a king. Well, as near to as one can get. How did I end up on an adventure with a dwarf warrior lord, nevermind he’s a king?_ His face slacked as he tried to wrap his head around where he was, and exactly what he was doing here. Whatever the reason, he needed to find his place among them before long, or he may as well take himself back to Hobbiton. On that, despite Thorin’s stern eye and Fíli’s watchfulness, the Took won out as he swallowed his cram and watched the sun rise, wondering what might be down the next curving path along the way.

^^^

Dís had three crafts the Maker gave her, if you discounted her abilities with short swords and close combat, and if you put aside what she’d learned in her life about resilience, and healing, and even joy after despair. The first two she’d honed as early in life as her parents had allowed: smithing, perfecting the crafting of smaller blades alongside her oldest brother, a skill she later transferred to moulding basic household items and worker’s tools which had far more value on the road than did fine swords. She then learned to cut gemstones and work silver in Dunland in order to better complement the skills of her remaining family members, and in planning to make best use of the acanthite she knew ran in rivered seams in the Blue Mountains where Thorin had been of a mind to migrate to. The final craft she’d refined then championed, once they’d made their delve there. It involved the careful honing of agendas, needs and egos of the different dwarves around her, each and every day weaving a multi-stranded filigree of dwarrow ambition into something that had to be strong enough to stand up against the world.

There were many skills she practiced as part of this craft. One was the art of appearing utterly absorbed in what other dwarrow were talking about, even when her mind was somewhere else entirely.

‘…demanding threescore breeding pairs by end summer. After that incident with the fabric, I’ll not be inclined to add to that particular trade with first grade raw material this time around, yet Kaegred himself insists that we collaborate on bolts of iron for the furs, but I think…’

She kept her back straight, but laid her chin in her fist, idly stroking at the fine black weaves she had set with two tiny cut sapphire beads, between them one deep brown garnet. Her eyes slipped into the middle distance.

‘Dís?’ Aoifdern gave a few irritated pats to the stone table. ‘Are you still with us?’

She focused, and saw that the meeting had paused, the day council all turned quizzically in her direction. She saw Edri frown, Nírasj fold her arms, and Luarc tilt her head in question. Geertje was closest to her, and signed just under the table with her left hand, any movement hidden from the others by her voluminous copper braids.

_Hale, you are? Drink, later._

She palmed her eyes for a moment, then smiled warmly around the table. Only those who knew her very well would realise the smile was part of her craft.

‘I think it is time we concluded this morning’s discussion.’

‘But – ’

‘I am not the only one here who requires sustenance and time to complete their duties, I’m sure, Aoifdern. We will resume tomorrow morning, but let me remind you that the instruction was and is to limit trade to essentials. Essentials means export of stock surplus to subsistence and domestic use for the next turn of the sun, and import of medicinal items and foodstuffs, that is all.’ Talking over Aoifdern’s protests, she spoke amicably to Geertje and Amblís. ‘Perhaps the two of you could draw up a list and present it to Aoifdern for discussion before tomorrow, I have faith in your ability to develop a proposal that we do not have to hammer out during the general meeting.’

Geertje made a face, but nodded.

‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

As soon as the last dwarf had left, she leaned forward to rub her forehead, then moved to the table of refreshments to take some water and food before she turned her mind to her list of tasks. Someone – probably Geertje – had laid out nuts and berries and, of all things, waybread. Well, it wasn’t strictly cram. It was made from finer flour and nuts and cut for use as a thin biscuit for table, but still, the recipe was similar enough to what she had spent a good part of her early years eating. Similar enough to what _they_ would be –

She quashed the thought and placed a piece of it on her tongue. It melted there, utterly unlike the stale chew of month-old waybread.

She stared at the table, the wafer dissipating to nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC’s intro’d in this chapter:  
> Aévr and his sister. More on his relationship to our golden heir later.
> 
> Khuzdul:  
>  _Nê ikrid ûdar:_ Apparently means, never trust a wizard. This doesn’t appear in the film or anything on the Dwarrow Scholar’s site, but it's mentioned by Aidan Turner in a random interview, and features in the Hobbit Chronicles. Damn shame, would have love to have seen more of the dwarves speaking Khuzdul.


	7. The Hazing of the Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo almost makes an early decision, but Nori gets there first.

Clouds rippled across the climbing sun, yet it was a warm day. They spent their lunch in a flowered meadow bordered by hedge and gnarled orchard.

Nori had been enjoying the hour of rest, feet propped up on a stump, idly sharpening knives between snoozes in the shade of an old apple tree. For the first time – and Nori clenched his fist a little, a warmth sneaking its way into his chest – Ori had come sit beside him to catch up on his scribing.

They sat companionably. At some point the hobbit had joined them, perched an arm’s length away on Ori’s other side, his gentlehobbit’s jacket in his lap and quietly stitching a button tighter. Nori was still gobsmacked that the little creature had appeared at all, racing up through the pines to Balin’s pony, the signed contract flapping in the breeze. From what Nori knew of hobbits, it was no common type to come haring after a travelling party of another race, and wilfully walk away from delve and easy comfort. He was going to keep an eye on this one, he thought, looking at the halfling’s fine curls and skin unblemished by road or hard work. This was either going to be very surprising, or downright tragic.

Nori could tell the hobbit was uncomfortable but doing his best to pretend the opposite. He sat, stitching nonchalantly away, but Nori could see the too-tight way he held his needle and gripped the fabric of the jacket. Every now and again he’d lift his chin to watch the other dwarves training. There were a few taking turns in the makeshift round; occupying it currently were Thorin’s nephews, who were down to their shirtsleeves and going double swords for single and each one using the opportunity to try and out-acrobat the other, metal clashing amid shouting and laughter as Dwalin and Thorin barked instruction, Bofur and Bifur egging them on.

Nori watched them too but kept one eye squinted on the hobbit, and on Ori. The kid had spent some time focused on his letters, then settled back on the tree trunk with a pleased sigh to begin doodling.

Dori, he was grateful to see, had remained over the other side of the meadow with Glóin. It gave Nori sufficient space to reach over and flick his younger brother on the knee.

'Ow!'

‘Here, give us a look?’ The hobbit glanced at them briefly, as Ori’s mouth and eyes rounded in surprise.

‘Oh… Alright. If you’re careful.’

Ori passed his notebook over uncertainly, and his brother took it with a grin. He made a show of brandishing the book open in the breeze – gently, mind, he could see the reverence with which Ori treated his scribe’s tools – and peered at it with such overblown courtly pretention that Ori covered a shy smile. Then Nori looked closer.

‘Hm. There’s detail. Look, you’ve even got his streak of silver in there.’ Ori’s cheeks pinked. Nori made no further comment but turned the page.

He grunted. ‘Ol’ goat stones is not _that_ much of a slab o’ hog, c’mon.’ Ori wriggled to tentatively look over his shoulder, and Nori pointed. ‘Got a suggestion: lose some bulk there, there and there. Also much less hair on the head. Y’know, so you can better see his tattoos. You want the history books to be accurate, don’t you?’ he jerked a sly thumb towards Dwalin, and this time Ori couldn’t keep from laughing aloud. Across the meadow, Dori heard the laughter and frowned, peering over at them.

He turned another page, and whistled. At the sound the hobbit looked over again, his curiosity creeping past his nerves.

‘Mahal, kid. Put in some effort to bulk me up next to big brother?’ He winked at a now beet-red Ori. ‘Lucky the dwarves down south don’t mind I ain’t got meat on my cheeks.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Hey, you should come with, once we’re done with Erebor...’

‘I can change it if you like – ’ Ori touched the tips of his braids, a thing Nori noticed he did when he was feeling deeply self-conscious or downcast. Nori patted him on the leg.

‘Jestin’ you, Ori. Keep it the same. It’s a good family portrait of us.’

The page turned again. Nori frowned and studied the new drawing.

’Oh, these are very good. What is this one?’

And Nori was fairly sure he hadn’t said that. He turned around; it was the hobbit, now standing about a foot behind them, and clearly unable to stop himself from asking, yet biting his lip as if trying to swallow the words back. Nori only looked him up and down, then turned back to the book.

‘Yeah, Ori, what is that?’

Done in charcoal and smudged a little, it was really no more than a page of rough sketches, a draft palette for Ori’s meandering thoughts. In the background, black ravens with wings of smoke hoisted away into the suggestion of distant peaks, the land fading off like dark water. A stairway, spiralling, in one corner. A dark doorway, in another. And in the centre foreground, bordered by the natural offwhite of the paper, a lone object etched with more diligent intent. A heavy circlet it looked like, highly stylised and geometric in what Nori recognised to be one of the old designs of long ages past, of the Misty Mountains, and of Erebor.

‘That a crown?’ he mused. ‘Crowns, eh.’

‘I, I’m sure I saw it in a book. Before we left home,’ said Ori, embarrassed.

‘It’s shaped like a bird’s wing,’ remarked Bilbo. Nori suddenly found himself crowded in by his brother and the halfling, who had put out one of his small soft fingers and was reaching for the page.

‘I see it, here,’ he traced the outline of one half of the crown. ‘And a beak, there. The shading and the pattern… It’s remarkable – Ori, is it?’

The young dwarf nodded.

‘It’s like I could pick it up from the page.’

Nori looked sideways to the hobbit, appraising.

They were interrupted by a muffled yell. In the centre of the clearing Kíli was on his knees having got Fíli face to ground in a headlock, his golden braids dark with sweat and beating the earth in submission. When Kíli released his grip, his brother pulled him down to knuckle him and knock their foreheads together, then allowed the younger to spring away, dirty and grinning in triumph.

‘Too slow, Kíli,’ grated Dwalin harshly. ‘He could have got you twice before you disarmed him. And you, Fíli, go harder, I know you’re holding back. You two need to stop playing as if it’s a game.’

‘No, I – ’

‘No buts,’ said Thorin shortly, ‘This is no game.’ He was stripping to his waist and pulling his thick-bladed broadsword from where it was stuck fast into the ground.

Dwalin stomped past Nori to retrieve his warhammer, and crooked his finger.

‘You! I want you in too. We’re all getting in practice, I’ve seen you slouching on your ponies,’ he threw pointedly to Bofur, who adopted a ‘who, me?’ expression.

‘Single combat then group defence. On your feet, get up.’

Nori groaned while Ori hid himself behind his book. The other dwarves came across the meadow in straggling groups to join the watchers under the apple tree, the nephews limping while wiping at their sweat with rags. Dori sat himself firmly down between his brothers, and eyed Nori.

‘Whose turn?’

‘You first, Southron.’

‘I’m not a – ’ began Nori, then gave up, huffing, and got to his feet. ‘Bit rude,’ he told his brothers as a narked aside.

Dori was unsympathetic. ‘As if you haven’t spent half your life down in those accursed lands. If the boots fit so well, you’ll forgive me for asking you to wear them.’

Nori ignored him, buckling his knife belt and picking up his mace. As he did so he brushed past the hobbit, whose demeanour was as a rabbit caught in one of Nori’s snares, apparently unable to look away from Thorin. The Company’s leader was in a concentrated fighter’s stance, stomach ridged hard, rolling the handle of the broadsword through his wrists and shifting from one hand to the other, so that the blade made wide round arcs in the air.

‘What a show-off, eh?’ winked Nori, muttered only for Bilbo’s ears. The hobbit, startled, stared up at the narrow coiffed face, that sharp grin.

Then he recoiled as Nori suddenly swung around and in a heartbeat was belting across the meadow, raising the mace; arriving at Thorin a split second later, it thrummed through the air and, whip-like, swung to connect with the side of the dwarf lord’s head.

Dori gasped loudly and Ori hid himself under his book, the other dwarves shouting in surprise –

 _‘I didn’t say start!’_ bellowed Dwalin –

Thorin didn’t change his face or his feet; Bilbo just saw his right arm _move,_ in a motion that started at the thatched jut of his rib, pectoral muscle and shoulder, then his left hand was suddenly also on the handle of the broadsword, and the blade was just _there,_ angled inches from his face and blocking the mace’s wood with the widest flat of the sword close to the hilt. The dark-haired lord and the tinker remained locked, narrowed blue eyes to grey through their weapons, Thorin’s arm muscles tightening broader than that of the more slender dwarf.

‘No fighting dirty, by the Maker!’ shrieked Dori.

‘Stand down!’ growled Dwalin, then stopped abrupt as Thorin shook his head and smiled humourlessly, softening the blade. As soon as Nori felt the pressure ease he pulled his mace up and away from Thorin, planting the base on the ground and drawing it close to his body so it leaned flush with his armpit, the ominous metal head of the weapon just reaching to the hairline of his own coiffed locks.

‘Just practicing,’ he grinned wolfishly. Then Nori just as smoothly – to Bilbo’s eyes, a blur – reached to his belt and turned hard from the waist, his arm flinging out from his body.

Something small and deadly flew and _thunked_ and _twanged,_ and there was a dagger vibrating tip first in a branch of the apple tree.

A small wild apple bounced to the ground and into Ori’s lap.

 _‘Nori!’_ Dori rubbed his head where it had encountered the fruit, face near red with fury.

 _‘Woah!’_ Kíli shouted, leaping to the dagger and poking at its still-vibrating hilt.

‘Good – ’ Thorin started, and the Company erupted into cheers and punches to the air, Bilbo releasing a hiss of breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Ori’s grin was wiped off his face by a cold look from Dori.

‘ – but next time, someone deflect,’ added Thorin resignedly.

 _‘Next_ time, he will bloody well wait until I say start,’ Dwalin stumped back to Thorin with his hammer, shoving past Nori.

‘No bad thing to stay sharp against a surprise attack,’ allowed Thorin. ‘You next, and you,’ he called, gesturing broadly.

Nori leaned on his mace and waited for his next opponent.

To his and everyone’s astonishment, the halfling squared his shoulders, and stepped out from the Company before Bofur had a chance to get up.

‘What should I… What do you want me to, er. Well. What do I do?’ the hapless hobbit said as the group quietened, shot through with sniggers. Nori could just about see the creature’s curly head of hair wilting under the scrutiny.

Thorin turned fully towards the halfling, braids on his chest, blue eyes alive with disdain.

‘I’m not sure I follow, Master Baggins. What weapon will you use against this?’ He hefted Deathless by way of explanation. ‘Conkers?’ he said to another round of laughter.

Nori wasn’t laughing, this time. _Shoulda knocked him one with the mace._

Thorin let his sword arm drop and scrutinised the hobbit darkly. ‘I suggest you go back to your sewing.’

_Could still hit him._

Bilbo had flushed hard and dropped his gaze. His fingers trembled a little as he twisted them together for comfort. A rabbit in a snare.

‘I – I’d thought you could teach me,’ he tried, visibly shrivelling in on himself. He took a step back and sideways, away from the Company, and away from Thorin, but kept his chin straight although his voice rasped. ‘Ah. How - how can I defend you if I can’t fight?'

 _Why did I say that?_ he thought, his brow wrinkling, as Thorin himself scoffed incredulously.

'If – if fighting’s so important,' he added tremulously.

‘No, lad,’ stated Balin, gentle but matter-of-fact.

‘I don’t think so,’ declared Glóin loudly.

‘You’ll need boots on those feet before playing near axes,’ cracked Bofur, pulling up his mattock as he headed to the round, Bombur following.

‘Naked feet are no good in battle. Halflings, ridiculous. Whose idea was it anyway?’ Bilbo heard someone say as if scandalised, and he thought it was Dori. He turned, burning in embarrassment now.

The last he saw before hurrying away was Nori, hands slung easily on the staff of his mace, assessing, the two nephews frowning deeply, and Ori turning from his book as if to call him back.

And blue eyes, flat and implacable.

^^^

‘Did you _see_ that?’ hissed Kíli.

Fíli kept his eyes on Thorin, who was circling the three fighters and roaring instruction.

‘What has you suddenly like this, Uncle,’ he muttered, rubbing at the sweat and dirt that had gathered at the nape of his neck, under his hair. To his brother he simply pointed upward to the tree branch. ‘Please tell me you’re not still talking about Nori’s aim.’

‘Did you _hear_ him?’ Kíli knocked knees with his, insistently. He was bolt upright, still looking from Thorin back to where Bilbo’s retreating back had disappeared, beyond the orchard line.

‘I hear _you,_ alright?’ said Fíli slightly sharply. His silvered left braid swung a little as he sponged off his forearms, fixing his Uncle with a wary gaze. ‘That wasn’t just curt. He’s putting him in his place. I haven’t seen him like that since Kaegred and Balin almost came to the axe over rights to the above-ground seams on the south bank of the Lune.’

‘But he’s just a hobbit! What place does he need to be put into?!’

From where he was perched nearby watching his cousins, Bifur turned, reached out, and tapped Fíli on the boot.

 _We all laugh. The small one,_ he signed low to the ground. He seemed downcast, something of an apology in his gesture, but also the slightest hint – if Fíli didn’t know any better – of a stern rebuke.

 _The small one,_ he signed again, as the two lads fell into guilty silence.

_Alone._

‘I’ll say he is,’ wrenched someone above their heads. They snapped up; it was Nori, swinging his mace furiously, but otherwise maintaining his trademark saunter. He had a bruise on his face and a mean look in his eye. Fíli could see Bofur and Bombur were still clashing mattock on ladle behind him.

‘An’ if you lot ain’t bothered to do anything about it, I will.’

He thwacked the apple tree in emphasis as he went, the rest of them ducking for cover as the fruit shivered above their heads.

^^^

Bilbo was packing his bag by the time Nori caught up with him. Yells and clashes could still be heard from the meadow.

‘Hey, hobbit!’ he called out, unhurried, using his mace as a walking stick. The halfling ignored him.

‘Bilbo, isn’t it. What’s the rush? We’re not moving on for a while yet.’

‘Not my quest,’ said Bilbo in a quiet voice. He straightened, fiddling with the buckle of his satchel and not looking up. ‘If I start now, I’ll be home in a couple of weeks. No call to continue if I’m not wanted.’

Nori crossed his arms and rested his mace on a thigh, and got a proper look at him. Far from the interest in Ori’s drawing that had blossomed from the tentative to fully absorbed, and following the miscalculated presumption that Thorin would include him in training, the hobbit now appeared unsteady, his centre shaken. His fingers tremored a little as he tried to work the buckle; the brass latch of the thing was broken, Nori could see, and what was more, the stitching on the leather was hanging by a thread.

‘Drat this confounding, bothersome – ’

‘Give that to me.’

‘No, no, I’m quite alright – ’

‘Give it. I’m a tinker. I’ll fix it real quick, and you can be on your way.’

Nori stood, one wrist wrapped round the mace staff, the other palm held out to Bilbo, his head tilted in what he hoped was an encouraging angle. Bilbo stood and looked doubtfully at the braided brows and spiked mane, the large boots, the bruise swelling purple under the eye and above the place that his beard met his cheekbone – _what on Arda…?_ – in fact, the total dwarvishness of him. 

‘Come on. It’s what I do.’

It only took Bilbo lifting the satchel ever so slightly, stammering –

‘Your – your face…’

– and Nori had grabbed it away, striding off to his saddlepack. He could hear the hobbit jogging along behind. When he knelt down to lay out the satchel for inspection, the hobbit sat right down beside him.

‘Hm. You packed it too tightly with your precious second breakfasts, didn’t you?’

He opened the satchel and upended it. Clothes, personal items, and little pouches of nuts and sweetmeats spilled all over the ground.

‘Um…’

From his own pack, Nori pulled out a leather-wrapped set of small handtools and accoutrements: his eyeglass, his clamp, screwdrivers and picks, small tins of oil and grease packed with cloth, and leather strings of various widths wound beside needles. He spent a moment selecting and arranging those he required, then straightened out the satchel so he could poke around at the buckle. He worked for a little while in silence, the hobbit just watching him and pulling at grass with his fingers.

He placed his eyeglass and squinted, twisting the metal.

‘You don’t know how you fit here, do you.’

He didn’t look at Bilbo, but could see in his peripheral vision that the hobbit’s mouth was working.

‘That was brave just now, but utterly stupid,’ Nori continued. ‘You're about a snug a fit as this,’ he held up the aberrant buckle latch briefly, then bent his head again.

‘You're right,’ Bilbo finally admitted with a look of defeat. He pushed his fingers into the ground. ‘And they're right. Whoever it was that said it. _“Whose idea was it anyway?” –_ I heard them. I know I’m not wanted. And there’s nothing I can offer. On a quest.’

Nori sighed, tweaking a part.

‘Don’t listen to my brother. He can be a right cow.’

Bilbo looked nonplussed. ‘You mean an ass.’

‘Yeah. That too, my bad. Definitely an ass, since I last left for Harad.’

Bilbo sat, uncertain. _I don’t understand dwarves._

They were quiet for a moment longer, the brass clacking and squeaking under Nori’s administrations. Then:

‘I’m sure he’s not the only one who thinks that,’ tried Bilbo hesitantly, peering up at him.

Nori just grunted, and tightened something Bilbo couldn’t see.

‘It’s hazing.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s hazing,’ he said again patiently. ‘They’re hazing you. Don’t you know? People been doing this crap since Arda got sung out of nothin’. Happens every time I go somewhere new with new folks. Like a herd of goats with the new one being taught who’s boss. Doesn’t make it right, but there it is.’

Bilbo said nothing, only twiddled with the grass in his fingers. He’d never fancied himself as a goat.

‘It’s worse with dwarves. Don’t spend enough time outside their delves,’ he wrenched with satisfaction, then held the brass closer to his eye. ‘Don’t know how to deal with what they don’t know, so they act out. Taking your measure. Testing where they can push and pull. Pingin’ the boundaries to see what you do.’

The last was like a light turning on, and the hobbit hummed in sudden and sour realisation.

‘Ah. We have one of those in the Shire. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.’

‘Lo-bee-lee-all Sockfit-Whatnow?’ Nori turned to him, squinting with the eyeglass, lip curling awry over his teeth. ‘What in the Abyss is that?’

‘Oh, just someone back home. Actually a cousin by marriage. She makes life rather more difficult than it has to be.’ Bilbo twisted his lips, trying to imagine whether tea with Lobelia would be better or worse than the situation he now found himself in. ‘You see, she’s prickly by nature, and she likes to prod people to get reactions, and take what she feels the rest of us owe her. Even if we don’t.’

‘There you go, you do get what I’m saying.’ Nori switched to a large needle and leather thread now, and began stitching the mended buckle back in.

‘I can finish that – ’

Nori slapped his hand lightly. ‘Don’t interrupt a tinker when they’re tinkering.’ He stitched, the eyeglass glinting in the sun.

‘Gandalf and Thorin, there’s your answer to Dori’s stupid question.’

‘I’m sorry, again, I don’t quite follow…’

‘It was them that agreed you should come. As for the rest, I could count on one hand the dwarves in this Company who’ve sat down to share a meal with any other folk day in, day out, let alone a hobbit. Most of ‘em are just dealing with what’s new, that’s all.’

Bilbo frowned. ‘Most?’

Nori grinned at him, and lifted a conspiratorial digit. ‘Long before the Company was just a twinkle in Thorin’s eye, I enjoyed a pint at that place in the Bywater. Several, in fact.’

The hobbit’s mouth dropped open, slowly. ‘Not the Green Dragon…? You?!’

‘Yeah. Years ago, though. You must’ve been a snotty little hobbity kid. As I recall, those old hobbits down the Inn tried their best to haze me.’ He crowed with the memory. ‘But they paid for most rounds, so I got the last laugh.’

‘How old are you?’

Nori fixed him with a snide look. ‘I’m more than a consenting dwarf and less than a doddery old gargoyle with my beard past my pants. How old are _you?’_

‘I’m a gentlehobbit of early middling age,’ said Bilbo primly.

‘No idea what that means.’ Nori completed his stitching, tying it off expertly then shaking the satchel out to inspect one final time. He pulled at the cuff of his tunic to give the brass a final polish.

‘Difference being between this and your Lofeeliall Snackmint-Blaggins – '

‘Sackville-Baggins,’ said Bilbo faintly, examining a new and peculiar impulse of duty to Lobelia.

‘ – whatever, the difference is that nine time of ten it’s a group of idiots being silly buggers for a while, for lots of reasons, not one person being, well, them. And, it will end.’ Nori nodded, handing Bilbo the mended satchel.

Bilbo ran his grass-stained fingers over the brass buckle. It clasped perfectly, and it was stitched to the leather as if new.

‘Thank you. For, for this,’ he said quietly, as Nori folded his tools back into his saddlepack and pushed himself off the ground with his mace.

‘It _will_ end. I’m not excusin’ it,’ said Nori after a beat. Some of the dwarves had begun to emerge from the meadow behind the orchard. ‘And I’ll keep an eye on it, but,’ here Nori pointed the tip of his mace down at Bilbo, who leaned back a little, his eyes moving from it to Nori, ‘what _you_ can do, is give it time. Watch, listen and learn. Remember dwarves do some things different than hobbits, and the other way around. Ask questions from those who make you feel comfortable. You know who they are.’

‘No volunteering for Dwalin’s training?’ Bilbo said sheepishly after a moment. Nori shook his head.

‘You don’t have to be a dwarf. Be a hobbit, learning about dwarves. Time’ll help you feel more confident, and then you’ll _be_ confident, and that’s the thing that’ll flip it. When that happens, you’ll have no problem telling ‘em where they can stick it. _Anyone,’_ he said meaningfully. ‘Trust me.’

He gave a rakish little smile and a wink.

‘Or, if not, you can head off home now. Bag’s all mended. Up to you.’

Bilbo clutched his satchel and began pushing his things back inside. His forehead was creased in thought.

‘What do they do?’

‘What d’you mean.’

‘The goats. What do they do when they’re hazed.’

‘Ah,’ said Nori in understanding. ‘Well. Some run like a rabbity little kid, or attack like an ol’ billy. And some freeze solid an’ play dead.’

‘Oh.’

He earthed his mace and leaned.

‘Or some hold their ground.’

Bilbo paused a moment longer.

Then:

‘Will you teach me? A little of how to use weapons?’

‘Shh,’ said Nori, finger on lips. ‘Not conkers, deal?’ He stopped, looking up at something behind Bilbo. The hobbit twisted around.

‘Going somewhere, Bilbo?’ said Gandalf, quirking a brow down at the two of them.

‘Just – ready to head off when everyone else is,’ said Bilbo. ‘Looking forward to getting back on the road, ha,’ he jaunted awkwardly, accepting Gandalf’s help getting up, and swinging his satchel to his back.

^^^

Bofur joined Nori as Bilbo and Gandalf walked off to retrieve their mounts.

‘Sorry about the face. Good chat? He’s not leaving, then,’ commented Bofur to Nori, without taking his eyes from them.

‘Guess not.’

‘Funny little thing, isn’t he? Brave but a little daft, if you ask me.’

‘Be nice to the hobbit, Bof.’

‘When was I not nice? Why’re you so suddenly interested in the halfling, anyway?’

Nori snorted and lifted up his saddlepack.

‘Catch me havin’ to be the thief in Erebor. No way.’

They went off to find their ponies.

^^^

That night, Thorin took Óin aside before he retired. They walked a little way out of the rock shelter in which they had chosen to camp, to where the moon cast long stone shadows to the river below.

The healer waited, understanding that patience was required.

‘I need some of the sleeproot.’

‘Is it your head again? I had enough willow bark from the halflings for Bifur for twenty days, so if we divide it we’ll need to have the lads scout around for more, although the last time Amblís asked your sister-sons to find a remedy we ended up with far too many of the wrong mushrooms, if you take my meaning – ’

‘No.’

Óin looked questioningly at Thorin. There was a taut, stretched quality to the dwarf’s voice and demeanour. In the moonlight his eyes were deeply shadowed, and his head hung a little in what Óin imagined was fatigue. He’d been snippier with his nephews, more exacting on the rest of the Company, and less approachable than was usual, Óin and Balin had privately agreed.

_‘It can’t be the gold fever already,’ the old healer had said to Balin, who only shook his head._

Óin remembered Thrór’s illness vividly; he had been newly raised to a healer rank in Erebor when the old king had first felt the pull of the metal in his blood. He thought to himself that at the next quiet place they rested, he would cast runes to try to read the road Thorin was on.

‘Thorin, are you feeling ill? Would you like me to take a look at you – ’

‘The sleeproot, Óin, please,’ Thorin snatched the words from the air in a way that was almost desperate, and Óin decided to let it be.

‘Aye.’ The healer felt at his robe, checking the pouches sewn to the inner layer, each one containing a small leather package oiled on the outside for waterproofing. Knots sewn into the cloth at each pouch in his cloak told him what it contained, and this was repeated for each package by the manner in which it was tied shut. A healer’s cirth, a code almost universal among the free folk’s apothecaries, medics and wisepeople. A language some said was also shared by orc healers, if Óin could believe there might be such a thing.

He found the little package of dried sleeproot and drew it out.

‘Let me brew it for you with some rosehip and licorice for sweetness, Thorin, it will taste as old boots – ’

‘On its own. Whatever you think the correct amount for a strong dose.’

Thorin held out a hand. Óin didn’t bother hesitating this time, but only fished out a few slivers of the root and handed them over.

‘Thank you, cousin. I may need more.’

And that was it, Thorin was striding back to the campground to heat a tea before he turned to his bedroll, Óin following quietly and tucking the sleeproot back into its place in his cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Southron - what Harad humans are normally called, derisively, similar to Easterlings. Here the northern dwarves are spinning the same kind of prejudice.
> 
> Lobelia - I just had to put her in, somewhere. All hail Lobelia.
> 
> Dori - you can hear him loudly bitching and moaning in the background when Bilbo catches up with them in the film. Querulous bitch Dori gives me life, so I lifted the line from there :)
> 
> Oin's pouches - pretty sure I was inspired by the wonderful Raven Totem by Jillian Baade for that idea.


	8. The Teaching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is shameless dwarven pony indulgence in three Acts. An Epic Fic equivalent of fluffy puppy/kitten memes, an equine interlude that also gives up a bit of dwarrow culture and hobbit story arc.
> 
> The third part of this chapter is a version of the standalone work some of you may have already read: ‘The Ponies and the Horses’. Now with All New Neo-Khuzdul courtesy of Dwarrow Scholar for the pony names, and slightly adjusted for the flow of the bigger fic.

_~ The Choosing, Thorin's Halls, Khagal’abbad (the Blue Mountains) ~_

A chill early spring morning dawned in the Ered Luin. The air smelled of pine and pigpen, smoke and goat. And pony. The yards outside the east-facing gates cut into the mountain of Thorin’s Halls were full of non-brood mares and geldings, the pick of the mountain ponies held late from being turned out to the highland grazing pastures, their hides still shaggy before the shed.

Luarc ran her fingers through the pelt of one of the duns then checked her teeth and hooves before sending her back into the corral.

‘That one, too,’ she told the handler. ‘The strongest,’ she added for good measure. She hugged her cloak around herself as she breathed out mist. She wished she, too, had a thick blanket of covering like these ponies did, but her pelt was far finer and shorter. This heavy pony hair would be harvested come summer, shorn to give relief from the heat and used to stuff mattresses, the manes for weaving mat and cloth. Mostly she wished these impatient Longbeard northerners had given her another year to breed her shorthair dish-faced desert ponies – currently warm and blanketed in the stables – with these stocky northern ones. They would be riding in harsh conditions of all seasons, she knew, but summer was settling fast on the lowlands and these hairy ones would feel it.

She muttered an apology to them, rising up on the barrier and extending a dark hand to touch the velvet noses that came searching for treats. The shaggy ponies were sweet, really. Kinder and more talkative, yet as stubborn as her proud, fast southern breed.

 _You will take them safely,_ she said in her mind. _I will ask Nori to clip you when it becomes too warm._

The ponies milled in the round, blowing and stamping, not objecting.

Over their sounds, Luarc suddenly heard the rush of wings. She looked up at the gentle wisps curling grey across the mountain, and raised her gauntleted left arm. In a second there were talons encircling it, a shifting heavy weight bearing down. Strong, sharp golden feathers ending in a white brush at the tail. Beaded eyes regarded her, a fierce predator’s beak bowing a handspan from her nose.

‘Örn,’ she spoke warmly, ‘Did you find your breakfast?’ The eagle hopped a little, and balanced. Her muscles tensed, and she adjusted the flat guard under the wool on her shoulder for the eagle to step to. There it settled, and perched heavy on her bone, the down of its breast tickling against her cheek, the wedge of the tail fanning out behind her.

She could feel it turn its unblinking gaze to where a small group of Broadbeam herders, blocky and muscled, lounged nearby. Their silence had sat colder than the morning, and on the arrival of the eagle their eyes slanted in disconcert.

‘Do you think yourself a Great Eagle, Örn my brother,’ she asked softly, too low to for the watchers to hear. ‘You are not as large as they, for all that you are noble.’ She turned her attention back to the ponies, while the eagle kept its gaze fixed behind her, head swivelled like an owl.

‘Dune-dweller,’ muttered one Broadbeam to the others, but loud enough to be heard. Luarc wrapped her cloak more firmly around herself, tensing her shoulder in case she needed to send the eagle up. He felt it, and cheeped, a sound that belied his fierceness.

‘Night-skin,’ growled another.

‘Durin’s cult. Mahal protect us from the southron stonewitch,’ loudly declaimed a third, threw dirt, and spat.

She didn’t turn to face them but let Örn stay as he was.

‘All as stone,’ she intoned quietly, as much to comfort herself as the eagle. She touched the scars on her neck for reassurance, and then lifted her finger to stroke Örn’s breast. ‘We are all as Durin, the First In Stone, First to wake all kin in stone, First to return. He will be reborn to remind us. May we find eachother in stone.’

Later, the risen sun warming the dew on the gates of Thorin’s Dûm, Luarc prepared for the choosing.

The newly formed Company was arriving to gather to benches ringing a small arena. Thorin was already there, sitting wrapped in dark leather trimmed with fur, and having a quiet word to Luarc, Balin nodding beside them. Dwalin stood at the end of the benches with some of the guard warriors.

Nori sidled forward and leaned on the barrier, a little way off from the others so he could keep an eye on everyone at once. He winked at Ori who sat beside their older brother.

He did not look directly at Luarc, and she did not acknowledge him.

‘I don’t know about this,’ Glóin was saying to his brother, wiping away frosting from the stone bench and seating himself uncomfortably. He shrugged deeper into his furs. ‘Thorin says Luarc’s going to do this differently. Says we’ll be better off if we follow her advice. I don’t know why we can’t just go down and pick one out of the stables on the day, I’ve got that many things to do.’

Dori stuck a stubborn chin out on his other side, taking one of Ori’s mittened hands in his to warm. ‘Not natural, is what it is. This’ll set tongues wagging, no mistake.’

‘Just another way of reading portents, is how I see it,’ declared Óin although he chewed the inside of his cheek, his nose standing pink among his silver whorls in the cold. He was rather wishing he’d brought his runes with him, perhaps the lass would indulge him a moment of her time so that they could talk shop. The last time he’d asked, she’d just looked at him out of those still dark eyes and told him something incomprehensible about Durin, Mahal bless her, and that eagle had flapped out his wingspan, then he’d hastily found somewhere else to be.

At this moment, the eagle perched comfortable on a roost Luarc had made for it beside the arena. She needed to be free of it for the moment, for her task.

‘Bifur!’

Kíli, his blue tunic unlaced at the top and shoved messily into his pants, still struggling on his leather coat and his hair flying, had skidded to a halt next to the black-haired dwarf, the older allowing the younger to knock his forehead to temple rather than brow to avoid the axe-head. They exchanged a wide grin for a gentle lopsided smile, then Bifur went back to staring at the ponies as Kíli danced from foot to foot in the chill, his attention flitting from the ponies, then to Luarc, the eagle, then to Nori.

Fíli joined them, fresh from the forges in his smith’s garb, clapping Bifur on the back amicably and drawing him into a little hug.

‘A fine morning to be above ground.’

‘Lads, what’s been happening. Long time since a proper catch-up,’ Bofur had hopped off the bench and grabbed both familiarly on the shoulders, Bombur following behind him.

‘Too long,’ nodded Fíli in greeting. He’d spent a good part of his childhood trailing his adad to the miner’s guild taproom, and these two dwarves featured strongly in those memories. Three, if you included Bifur although Kíli had more reason to feel closer to the scarred older stonemason. The Halls had grown larger since that time, and so had their families and the two lads’ commitments as young dwarves but each time they were together it felt a kin reunion, blood or no blood.

‘How’s the fidgets, how many are you up to now?’ Fíli ribbed, but with genuine interest.

‘Aye, they’re well. Number thirteen on the way,’ said Bombur proudly.

Fíli gave a low whistle. ‘I heard, my congratulations.’

‘It’ll be more than thirteen if there’s a third set of triplets, mind you,’ commented Bofur with a sly wink; Bombur made a pretence of fainting with Bofur readying to catch him, and they all chortled. 

‘Lucky the little one is sweet as a piglet, even if the striplings are trouble.’

‘Will Geertje be alright while you’re away?’

‘The oldest three are pulling their weight. Geertje’s got her hands full with the Hall’s stores now that she finally accepted Dís’ offer.’

Fíli’s lips curved up and he dimpled. ‘Amad is persistent.’

‘She usually gets her way, you mean,’ Bofur grinned back, and Bombur chuckled.

‘Except about this,’ said Fíli, his smile slipping. The older dwarf laid a hand on his arm and squeezed it.

‘Aye. I feel for the lass. I mean the Lady.’

Fíli thought that the brothers, and their cousin if he could still speak, were the only other dwarves in the world beyond his mother’s own blood cousins who could get away with calling her ‘lass’.

‘So, here we are. We’re all going then,’ whooped Kíli, collapsing onto the corral rail next to his brother, his dark fringe flopping into a grinning eye.

‘That we are. And I’m glad of it,’ said Bofur. He pressed his lips together, the vertical dimples beside his moustache rivalling those of Fíli, and looked kindly at the two of them.

‘Honestly. We are glad to be of service. For so many reasons.’

Fíli said nothing, only clasped the miner on the shoulder.

_‘Ansaru!’_

They turned at Thorin’s command; Luarc was walking the first shaggy pony into the round. It had no saddle nor bridle, nor even halter; she simply held her hand lightly under the pony’s chin, and it followed eagerly, another coming behind.

She turned her dark eyes to Thorin and briefly lowered her head, and he returned the favour.

The Company entered the arena, Kíli leaping over the rails, his brother using the gate and arriving at a more sedate pace. The rest trickled in in small groups until there were twelve dwarves behind Thorin, facing Luarc expectantly. Nearby dwarrow came to lean on the outer railing to watch, Jyri and Ebba among them.

Luarc looked them over. ‘Put space between you,’ she told them in her soft accent. ‘More than that. You look like a herd yourselves. You’ll smell easier separated.’

‘Can’t I just take the mare I had last time I went north?’ rasped Dwalin, moving away. ‘She was a good, strong steed.’

‘She’s with foal,’ said Luarc, flashing her eyes at him briefly before turning away. ‘You may change your mind when you see the quality of these ponies.’

She led in more, two by two, as the Company waited in the thin morning sunlight.

Kíli shifted his feet from side to side against the cold, as she came in again with another pair.

‘Luarc!’ he entreated playfully, trying to draw her out. He wasn’t expecting a response. ‘Can I have an oliphaunt?’

Luarc’s brow crossed as she looked at him, long dark fingers patting the nose of one of the ponies.

‘A _mûmakil?_ Young one, here is your _mûmakil.’_ And she lifted her thickly wrapped garment to show him the densely layered, wrinkled grey leather of her boots. ‘These came from an old grandmother who passed near the summer camp five turns ago. We waited, we thanked her, and we took what she could offer us on her departure.’

Disbelief and reverence competed for room in the young dwarf’s expression.

‘You must learn to ride them from when you are very small,’ she added to everyone’s surprise. It was rare to hear more than a few words from her at a time. ‘And because of their great size you need a team of riders linked together in spirit, brawn and will, to climb them, to tame and guide them. We are not haradrim men driving them like trolls,’ she spat.

‘They are hard as stone,’ she continued generously. ‘Skin of toughest cured leather. And good, beautiful hearts, but no,’ she chided, pushing gently at one of the ponies who was nosing her garment for treats, ‘you need to learn them very young. For now, learn your pony,’ she told him, indicating his restless feet, ‘do not act as one.’

Kíli was not at all intimidated; rather, he was enthralled by the southern song in her accent, and elated that she was finally sharing some of her world. He said nothing cheeky in reply, but instead offered his own version of respect: a charming little bow of acquiescence and gratitude, and his widest beaming grin. Over by Bofur, Nori scoffed.

She drew in a few more, until many ponies shared the same space as them, at least two for each of the thirteen dwarves in the Company. Luarc hoisted herself to perch on the rails, watching as the ponies milled to one side of the arena, ears pricked and some flehming the air in the dwarves’ direction.

‘Now you are in their place, and they have their right to choose for such a far and arduous journey. So, go slowly,’ she instructed in her soft, insistent way. ‘listen to their bodies, and you will know how they are responding to you. Listen and feel. Use other senses than your eyes. If you like, you may move among them, but use their language, side on, no sudden movements, no threat.’

Some of the dwarves began to move, hesitantly. Others were too confident.

‘Kíli, listen to me. Slow down. Do not walk straight at the first one you see,’ she admonished.

‘Look at Nori there,’ she suggested, reluctantly pointing in his direction but emphatically not making eye contact.

‘See, he watches their ears. When one shows interest, talk softly to them, allow them to approach if they wish.’

Nori was already smoothing the questing nose of a grey dun with a dark face who had come to him. He stroked its velvet ears, and wrapped a hand around its other cheek, meandering through the other dwarves and ponies with its head on his shoulder.

‘Mine’s chosen me,’ he said, and grinned at Dori’s incredulous face, Ori and Kíli projecting awe as they stared, Dwalin’s grunt of dismissal. ‘Yes, you have,’ said Nori, turning his attention back to the pony, a note of unusual gentleness in his voice. He kept his hands soft on the mare’s nose. ‘Following me around like a shadow.’

‘See,’ said Luarc, extending an arm as her eagle Örn spread its wings and flapped the short distance from his perch to her shoulder. ‘Like that. They choose you. Wait. Have the patience Durin granted you, as stone.’

The dwarves leaning on the rails watched those inside walk slowly around, each dwarf quieting in their own way.

‘Look at that,’ murmured Jyri with his beard on his hands. His flop of fringe fell into his eyes, the braids at the side of his head gathered back into a bun. His square jaw moved as he watched Fíli, his shield-brother, fold an arm around the neck of a dapple-grey geld and laugh; the gold and silver in the mane were not too far off his own colouring. ‘Kíli’s not having the same luck.’

Ebba leaned next to him, her quiver sticking up behind her like spines. She had eyes only for the dark-haired dwarf, and they blinked amber as she watched him sidle around unsuccessfully while the other dwarves were found by ponies.

‘Kíli’s an idiot,’ she said automatically. ‘Do you wish you were going?’ she asked suddenly and from out of nowhere, wistful and more than a little jealous.

Jyri laid his cheek on the rail and examined the freckles on her face, and the faint growth of light brown hair on her chin making her seem far younger than she was.

‘What do you think? Stuck here training the striplings. Gimli’s going to be the end of me.’

‘Hm.’

Their eyes followed the scribe, Ori, who had frozen while a small brown pony walked purposefully towards him, nose low and ears pricked. His gasp turned into a giggle as the little one went to rub its itchy forehead on his chest. Nearby his brother’s eyes went round as the coif of his silver hair; a pale one, patches of bay on its face and legs, shook its head regally and pressed a nose to his hand.

Glóin and Óin both had dark ponies approach them, the first making a rough and loud snort then neighing loudly in Glóin’s face, the dwarf laughing in surprise and gratification; the second stilling in enjoyment as Óin delightedly ran his thick fingers through her red-black woollen locks. The brothers Fundinul had two white ones follow close behind their steps, and when Balin stopped the small white mare stopped too. Smiling broadly, he patted her neck while she leaned down to put her muzzle into his own pale beard. Dwalin continued to pace ahead, occasionally grinning around as the big yellow-white mare stalked him; he boomed a guffaw when she bumped her forelock insistently at his back, powerful enough to cause the large dwarf to stumble. ‘Alright then, you’re with me,’ he rumbled with pleasure, tousling her fringe.

Thorin and a great chestnut-gold mare with a dark mane were walking around the other in a wide circle. Thorin stayed sidelong with his eyes on her ears, and she walked long and muscular with her nose extended, smelling. He turned suddenly; she turned with him, and followed him around in the opposite direction. Finally the tall dwarf paused, and she did too, ears pricked to see what he would do next. Thorin kept his blue eyes steady on her; she blew, tossing her mane, and stamped a foot.

And then he smiled, and held out his palm.

 _‘Anshat_ ,’ he said soft and slow, as she came elegantly towards his outstretched hand, blowing and smelling. ‘ _Anshat. Thurkhu Dufburul Tajnidi. Ithki. Iznigê, imditê. Ra amnas._ ’

He bent his head, and she also bent at the neck to allow him to lean his forehead against hers. They remained there for a moment, the pony blowing warm air at his braids.

The dwarves scattered outside the arena grinned and slapped their thighs.

Luarc smiled too. ‘She greets our Leader in the proper way. It is a good sign.’ Then she turned her attention to the remaining dwarves.

Bombur had a red dun calmly eating a piece of carrot from his hand, and he was scratching her ear while chomping on his own mouthful. His brother sat on the ground chortling up at a yellow dun lipping gently at this hat and neck. And Bifur – Luarc peered forward in a gesture that was entirely out of character for her – Bifur had three ponies ranged around him, a black, a grey, and a red roan. He turned slowly, staring at each of them in turn, scratching one under the chin here, patting another on the neck, even leaning forward and letting one widen its nostrils at his axe-head.

‘One only, _khazdûn zai bark,_ although they would all have you!’ Luarc laughed unexpectedly, her teeth shining whitely. It tinkled like little bells among the ponies, and made Bifur focus in on her, brow furrowed, and Kíli look over with longing at the attention she was showing him.

She inclined her head, smiled encouragingly, and made two signs in Bifur’s direction.

_Close your eyes, listen._

He did, swaying a little where he stood. The ponies fussed around his beard, his splay of black hair, until one stepped around – those watching gasped – and negotiated itself bodily to stand in front of him, side-swiping another away with its flank. The pony edged just a tiny bit closer, then hooked her neck over Bifur’s shoulder. He opened his eyes and found himself chest to chest with the red roan pony; he gave her a tentative, patting hug, turning a little to crinkle his eyes at his cousins. The pony, inexplicably, chose that moment to fall asleep.

Luarc placed a palm up in respect. ‘That is one who is open.’

The only one left was Kíli. Self-consciously, he tried his best to stay where he was, looking this way and that for a pony – any pony – to find his gaze and claim him. The ponies clustered by the gate had lessened considerably, but still more than half were crowding there. Kíli craned his neck, trying to see if he recognised any of them from when he’d ridden on caravan duty.

‘Ask them,’ nodded Luarc, folding her hands on her knee.

Feeling silly, Kíli looked around and found Ebba. She signed in their own shared shorthand, _get on with it, you lump of clay_. He swallowed.

‘At your service, ponies,’ he started. To his left, Fíli gave him an encouraging smile, still patting at his dapple grey. ‘Uh. We’re going on a long journey, far from these mountains. To – to my Uncle’s place. My amad’s place.’

‘Your place,’ murmured Thorin quietly, and only Fíli heard.

‘Somewhere that used to belong to our people. We’re going to get it back, and so any one of you who’d like a run down in the lowlands, who likes a bit of wind in the,’ he gestured at the sky, then indicated his own hopelessly messed hair, ‘mane, who likes a bit of an adventure and doesn’t mind an archer around, this journey is well suited to you. And I would be honoured to ride with you, and I will do my best to serve as you do.’ He paused for a moment, noticing Bombur. 'I’ll bring carrots?’

Kíli finished and bowed, waiting, as his brother and Bofur hid their grins, and Ebba pretended to swipe an irritant from the corner of her eye. Some of the ponies had faced their ears in his direction in mild interest, but none moved.

Luarc stood slowly on the railing, eagle still at her shoulder, preparing to get down and help him, when suddenly the ponies shifted and moved, and a high, loud whinny broke the silence. Out of the pack came a syrupy brown mare with a pretty face, a blurred star on her forelock with a splodge of pink and white close to her nose. She made a high-stepping trot of the round, dodging startled dwarves and their ponies, then breaking her circle she made straight at him, nose in the air and tail flicking out. She made a little jump as if to start to a canter, abruptly halting with her hooves at his boots. She stood, her belly moving as she breathed deeply, dark liquid eyes gentle.

Kíli’s beam just about split his face in two. ‘You’re like an arrow,’ he spoke directly to her, eyes wide. ‘Yes! This one has me!’ He whipped around to where his Uncle stood with his fingers wound in his own mare’s mane, and Thorin nodded and gave him the most discernable of his small smiles.

‘It is done,’ said Luarc in a satisfied voice, and spoke directly to Thorin, who listened, the mare’s nose at his shoulder. ‘They have chosen, we did not force. You were thirteen, now you are twenty-six; the strongest willingly at your side. If their names are not yet with you, you will listen carefully tonight to your dreams, and they will come.’ She sent Örn up into the air with a nudge of her shoulder. ‘From the rest I will invite the packponies. Three will suffice if you rest them well each day. Come and see me and we will have new saddles made.’

She looked across the group of dwarves, deep in affection with their new mounts.

‘Keep them safe,’ she requested quietly, not clarifying to which group she addressed her comment.

^^^

_~ The Riding, a forest at the foot of the Weather Hills ~_

They rode a bracken-edged path, under the eaves of giant red cedar and spruce. Blackbirds trilled from the undergrowth, and there was a rich, clean smell of earth, a welcome change from the midge-infested marshes that had so bothered Bilbo. Here in the forest, there was but a light drizzle landing a shimmering layer on the shaggy ponies, and on the heads of those who had not pulled up their hoods.

Near the back of the line, Bilbo creaked atop the laden rug that served as his saddle. He was at this moment thanking the veritable stars that he had a giant cookpot against the small of his back, propping him up. It was a pity he had nothing of the sort for his arms to rest on. He held the rein-rope up at his chest, and they cramped, but he dare not lower them in the case Myrtle again tried to take her own path through the forest to a nice juicy bit of ground cover.

‘Theeere’s aaaaaannn…’

Bilbo winced. How many verses of this song were there? The one with the hat – that one who had so enjoyed teasing Bilbo about dragons, doilies and handkerchiefs – seemed intent on singing their way down from the heights into the valley and back up again to this particular ditty, and none other. He didn’t mind singing, ordinarily, and he quite liked a lively tune, but he much preferred it back home at a gathering with a fire going, a full belly and a little glass of something warming in his hand. Not out here somewhere back of Arda’s left foot.

From up ahead, the be-hatted one yelled a particularly… earthy… verse, the syllables bouncing from the trees and the words reaching his ears fairly intact, thanks to the way Bofur appeared to feel it important to shift in his saddle and aim his performance to the entire Company. He had in fact started in Khuzdul but once a sweep of the line with his smiling eyes caught on Bilbo, he had switched to his liltingly-accented common, almost pirouetting in a stirrup to keep the hobbit’s wavering attention. Then other dwarven voices rumbled in laughter and began to join in.

Bilbo sighed, and with trepidation placed the ropes into one high hand, the other feeling around in his pockets for something to nibble on. He was sure he’d left some dried figs in his weskit for emergencies such as this.

 _Stamp, blow, stamp, stamp_ , went Myrtle. He chewed the figs, grasping both sides of the rope tight again, tuning out the dwarves and focusing on the rhythm of the muscles in Myrtle’s shoulders. Her ears glanced around to him as she heard him rustle and munch, the fine rain dusting her mane and fur like dew.

Oh, but his buttocks were sore. He’d be sitting on his folded jacket as well if not for the damp and slight chill that accompanied it. Even cushioned with gear, he had been puffed and swollen the first few days, now he was bruised along the bones of his seat and at the small of his back where it rubbed against the cookpot. He shifted uncomfortably, taking a deep breath and almost swearing internally. Myrtle tossed her head and gave a disgruntled little whinny, the sort she did when he did something that displeased her.

He could see up the line, when the path curved a little, all the way up the front to that broad back clad in faded blue leather trimmed with fur, he to whom it belonged occasionally glancing back in what could be construed as disapproval.

As the dwarf with the hat sang on, standing in his stirrups and throwing his arms around for good measure, there was a sudden increase in rhythm behind him; Myrtle looked around suspiciously. Bilbo knew before they appeared that it was one of the young dwarves who occupied the tail end of the riding column. He wasn’t surprised. There had been some whispering behind him on occasion in between stories, laughter, yelled insults towards dwarves further up the line, and bouts of song. The whispering usually heralded an attempt by the young ones to talk with him, which he looked forward to and dreaded in equal measure.

‘Ho, hobbit,’ said the dark haired one, as his toffee-coloured mount trotted up to match walking pace with Bilbo’s pony. Myrtle greeted the newcomer with no more than another toss of her head and roll of her eyes, and nodded on.

‘Hello,’ said Bilbo shortly, and risked a glance sideways at the young one’s barely noticeable beard, his quick grin and dark eyes, the full quiver and bow at his back.

‘You’re still holding them wrong,’ the young one told him outright. He sat his pony easily, keeping light contact with its mouth but his legs long to the pony’s sides, relaxed and centred. ‘Copy me.’

Bilbo complied, trying his best to lower his arms and flip a loop of the rope in that peculiar way the dwarf was holding their reins. It made him feel insecure, and despite himself his elbows folded back upward, his wrists almost at his chin. It was as if he were shielding himself from an inevitable fall.

Kíli moved his seat and one arm very slightly, and his pony sidled closer to Myrtle.

‘Here. Like this,’ Bilbo looked at the big gauntleted hand as it took both of his and gently lowered them, folding his fingers correctly.

‘See. Now take a deep breath, in, out.’

Bilbo tried it. It helped. A muscle in Myrtle’s shoulder twitched, and relaxed. Kíli let go of his hands and gave a grin. Then he pinched Bilbo’s knee, and the hobbit squeaked inadvertently; it tickled.

‘Now relax your legs too. Don’t clench; she doesn’t like you to do that if the others in front of her aren’t moving forward.’

Bilbo started upright, a panicked look in his eye.

‘Wait, wait, aren’t we already moving forward? How much more moving forward is there?’

‘Ah, ah,’ Kíli pushed his hands down again. ‘Relaxed but ready. Soft but held. Like your posture, it’s good,’ he smiled again encouragingly. Bilbo kept his head forward but his eyes strained sideways again. He could see the young dwarf was enjoying playing the role of teacher. It was this that made him give an extra effort.

‘There you are, good.’ Kíli looked doubtfully down at where his hobbit feet hung naked and stirrup-less at Myrtle’s sides. He pointed down at his own shod feet, enclosed in a rounded stirrup.

‘But I think we’ll need to fix you something like this in case we need to go fast. Especially if the weather gets wetter.’

 _‘Pardon_ me?’

As Bilbo snatched at Myrtle’s mane at the upsetting thought of _fast,_ his knees went reflexively upward, and Myrtle’s head reared up and she stumbled clumsily to one side, and as Kíli reached out, ‘Woah, Bilbo, just relax – ’ he heard another quicker rhythm, then another dwarf on his pony was rocking past his other side and grabbing hold of Myrtle’s halter at the cheek, the dappled grey calmly blocking her path. Myrtle stepped back just a little, then stood, blowing.

Fíli shook his blonde braids at his brother, tiny splashes of dew landing on his nose. ‘I thought you were teaching him?’

‘I was!’

‘Alright.’ Fíli swung down from his saddle, the column of dwarves moving on and leave the three of them behind, Bofur’s song fading off as they progressed further away among the trees. Some of the dwarves looked back curiously.

 _‘Ignigí!’_ Fíli called out, waving them off, and they nodded and kept on, tails swishing on pony behinds.

‘Hang on.’ Fíli bent to his saddlepacks while holding his pony’s halter in one hand. He dug around, frowning, then made a bright, satisfied hum. ‘Here you go,’ he brandished a couple of flat pieces of metal at Bilbo. Then he pulled a coiled length of flat, tight hemp rope, a belt strap, and a rolled mat of thin but durable tanned leather that had any number of uses, from armour patch to spare bracer; he threw these to one side of the path. He then went to hitch his pony to a slender tree, giving it enough headroom to bend and taste the herbs that grew there. Kíli followed suit, unseating himself by bringing a leg frontways over his pony’s head and leaping to the ground.

‘I’m going in the trees.’

‘We'll be here.’

As Fíli sat and pulled out one of his many knives, Bilbo wobbled atop Myrtle awkwardly. His pony had dipped her head and was now munching contentedly alongside the grey, the toffee one moving up onto the bank beside the path and almost walking over the dwarf. Fíli pushed the mare’s head away affectionately.

 _‘Lulkh,_ ’ he told her fondly as he worked, _‘agrâthul.’_

‘Um, should I get down?’

‘Not unless you need to use the facilities,’ grinned Fíli, jerking a thumb at the trees behind where Bilbo could see Kíli’s bare rear, the dwarf standing with his legs apart and neck bent back in relief in front of a great cedar.

‘I’m fine,’ he averted his eyes quickly, and instead focused on what the young dwarf was doing. The two flat pieces of what looked like iron had holes in the ends, he now saw. Fíli had first made small loops for each iron using shorter pieces of rope tied tightly to each end, creating two crude stirrups. He was now measuring out a double length of rope against his arm, repeating it for the second piece. Then he laid these out and made a complicated knot from each stirrup to either side of the soft but tough leather mat, weaving the rope through punched holes edged with metal, strengthening with extra branches of rope and fastening it securely. The leather strap he affixed by looping it through two slots on each sides of the makeshift saddle adjacent to where the rope was knotted, so that it would sit evenly on Myrtle. He picked it up to inspect; the stirrups hung straight from each side.

‘This should do for now. It’s about your size, and you are light enough,’ said Fíli, holding up the leather to his eye and sizing it up to Bilbo.

‘One way to find out. Off you get,’ he said, springing to his feet. He made a step for Bilbo with linked fingers, the stirruped saddle lying over his shoulder, and Bilbo hoisted himself painfully off Myrtle’s sweaty sides, using Fíli’s shoulder to balance himself.

‘Oops, don’t accidentally touch the braids,’ warned Fíli as he eased Bilbo’s slide groundward.

‘Did he?’ asked Kíli in some disbelief, dodging bracken as he climbed down the embankment doing up the stays on his trousers.

‘Not really.’ Fíli removed the blanket and gave Myrtle a quick rub before replacing it on its reverse side, then he laid out the leather mat, adjusting the pack gear as he did so. He smoothed her neck and talked to her in Khuzdul; she raised her head, chewing.

‘What would happen if I touched a dwarf on the braids?’ wondered Bilbo aloud, unable to help himself.

‘You’d have to marry him,’ laughed Kíli, giving the hobbit a suggestive wink, who was taken aback.

‘He’s leading you down one, don’t listen to his rubbish,’ Fíli grunted, reaching under Myrtle’s belly to retrieve the leather strap, which he bound in place like a belt around her middle. He gave the makeshift saddle an experimental push; it moved with Myrtle like a second skin.

‘All ready?’ He and his brother appeared at Bilbo’s side and jointly hoisted him upward. They gave him the rope-rein and stood assessing the length of the stirrups, Bilbo wriggling each naked foot onto the cool flat metal. It definitely made a difference, feeling something under his feet. He already felt a little more secure.

‘Hm, bit uneven. We’ll ask Nori to adjust them next time we stop, but they’ll do for now,’ said Fíli.

Just as the two dwarves were untying their mounts, Bilbo trying in vain to pick up Myrtle’s head, a dwarf on pony-back pounded back down the path towards them.

‘Speak of the goblin,’ said Fíli, swinging back up onto his own mount.

‘Oi!’ called Nori, pulling his dark dun pony to a sidling stop, then turning her around and calling over his shoulder. ‘Your Lord Uncle wants you to hurry up. We’re going to have to get a bit of a move on to find camp before dusk,’ and he gave his pony a nudge with his knees, launching back into a canter up the path ahead.

Bilbo only just had time to whip his head around as Myrtle whinnied; he gathered the rope-rein desperately as Kíli pulled himself into his own saddle with a jump.

‘Remember what I said: arms down, rope held with contact, relaxed but keep your seat – ’

‘Put the fleshy part on the stirrup, the pad just before your big toe – ’ Fíli tapped his own boot, looking pointedly at Bilbo’s feet.

‘Watch us,’ they chorused, and then Kíli was off after Nori, cantering leisurely, Fíli holding his dappled grey back. He stuck a finger one more time to his feet and caught Bilbo’s eye as he moved the gelding nose-first to the path. ‘Keep your backside and legs weighted naturally, don’t grip too hard with your knees. Push with her rhythm when she trots. Follow me.’ He moved off, touching light heels into his pony once, and as the gelding began to jounce down the path he lifted himself from the saddle.

'Push with her... what?'

Bilbo could do nothing more than hold Myrtle’s rope the way he’d been asked to as she began to jog and jolt after the grey pony, her flaxen mane jumping, ears pointed forward.

Gasping, trying to keep his feet on the stirrups and failing to call up everything else they’d told him he needed to do all at once, he gave up and grabbed at Myrtle’s mane. His teeth clacked distressingly as they continued on at a smart trot, Fíli occasionally smiling worriedly at him over his shoulder.

‘Bilbo? All fine?’

‘Just… please don’t run… please don’t run!’

^^^

_~ The Naming, somewhere west of the Trollshaws ~_

Bilbo sat gingerly in the shade between the buttress roots of an enormous fig tree, eating his dinner alone again, Gandalf having gone to confer with Thorin and those dwarves that appeared to be his primary advisers: the two sons of Fundin, the older healer dwarf with the frankly impressive hooked silver moustache-plaits, the one with the great fiery beard decorated with beads, and Nori’s often acerbic brother Dori, the thickset silver-haired dwarf with the multiple fussy braids and the solid clasp just under his chin.

Not for the first time, Bilbo wondered about those braids and beads. Did they indicate some sort of seniority or rank? And what had Fíli meant by touching braids? He didn’t feel brave enough to ask just yet, not when he hadn’t even gotten a handle on remembering all their names, not when he was still quite tongue-tied around them, not when his presence was so clearly barely tolerated. He felt that whenever he said anything, at best his new companions would either look quizzical or laugh uproariously; even the incident with Bofur’s makeshift handkerchief still smarted, as did his ineptitude at most things beyond making tea.

And at worst…

Bilbo tried not to think about his foolish mistake in the meadow. He still wondered if he’d made the right decision, staying, as Nori had convinced him to do.

Cradling his stew, he miserably fell to reciting another list of the names of the Company in his head, when one of them sat heavily beside him.

‘Care for an apple? Bit of sweetness’ll do a body good after a day’s ride.’

Bilbo looked up at Bofur, who peered kindly at him from underneath the turn of his woolly hat. The dwarf was proffering a small wild apple, his other hand balancing his own bowl of stew.

‘Oh… thank you. Very kind of you.’ Bilbo self-consciously placed the fruit next to his bowl. ‘I was – ’

He looked about in some surprise as Bofur was joined by his brother Bombur, and their cousin – he knew the shock of black hair and the perpetually staring eyes atop which sat that distressing axe to be Bifur. They were followed soon after by Nori, who sent him a knowing little nod, then the small artist with the knitted gloves, whose shyness and boyish attempts to affect the demeanour of a hardened warrior had endeared him somewhat to Bilbo. Not the least because here might be one member of the Company who was potentially only slightly less incompetent with a weapon than Bilbo.

The dwarves arranged themselves comfortably around him, and ate heartily from their bowls, at ease with one another and utterly oblivious that they’d made a certain hobbit exceedingly nervous.

‘How’s your backside, Bom?’

The dwarves chuckled. Bombur made a face and rubbed the broad muscles at the base of his spine. ‘Oh, just fine, thank you brother,’ he said drily in his lilting accent, then sighed. ‘No call to be at saddle since the eldest took over the merchant trade from Geertje. Never thought I’d be at it like this again. It fair damages.’

‘Aye, but least you got some good flesh to sit on. Not like these two skinny lads. Sore bones, boys?’

Nori, with a mouthful of stew, indicated his younger brother. ‘Ori knit us saddle pads.’

‘Bless me. Not just a pretty face.’ Bofur looked over at the hobbit. ‘What about you, Bilbo? Much cause to ride in the Shire?’

‘Um.’ Bilbo swallowed as all the dwarves turned curious faces on him. ‘Ah. Only to see relatives in the other farthings.’ He coloured a little as the dwarves frowned, of course not understanding Shire geography. ‘Not far. I haven’t really been about beyond Bree,’ he confessed, then pressed on a little desperately. ‘I guess Myrtle’s only just putting up with me.’

Bofur gave his head a confused shake. ‘Who?’

‘Myrtle. You gave her to me,’ replied Bilbo, looking around at the uncomprehending faces.

‘Myr-tle,’ repeated Bofur, and Ori paused in the act of spooning his stew and mouthed silently along with the syllables. Bifur scratched his head and made a little sign with his fingers.

‘Oh aye, the pony. Ah, well. I didn’t realise you’d given her a hobbit name,’ said Bofur, putting his empty bowl aside and stretching back, casually leaning on his elbows. ‘We just called her…’ and here Bofur spoke a few unfamiliar syllables, Bilbo guessing it was dwarvish from the way the other dwarves gave a little start. Nori stared at Bofur, then relaxed, chuckling for some reason.

‘What’s this? Did we just hear you speak Khuzdul in front of the hobbit?’

Two more dwarves sat themselves to ground, both with full bowls of stew; it was the young brothers, Thorin’s nephews, who seemed to wave away any attempt to treat them differently. Glad to have attention diverted from him, Bilbo found himself watching the others’ reactions as the two settled down in their midst. Bifur had hummed in recognition, Bofur and Bombur nodding in easy welcome. Nori had squinted and looked to one side, while Ori had folded himself in half, slowly and deferentially.

‘Are you going to do that every time we sit down with you? You’ll give yourself a crick in the neck.’

It was the dark-haired one who had spoken, grinning around a mouthful of food. ‘Honestly, Ori, don’t. You only started doing it when Thorin showed up again. Don’t mind Uncle,’ he reached out and gave the shrinking Ori a playful clap on the shoulder. ‘This isn’t the Halls, and you’re Durin’s Folk, as much as we are. _And_ you’re older’n me by three years. Older cousins already braided don’t bow to their youngers, it’s weird.’ At this, Ori looked self-conscious but pleased, hands moving to skitter across his short braids where they ended at his woollen cowl, his back straightening up.

‘Agreed, Ori. No cause for ceremony, we’re all in this Company together.’ Fíli turned amicably towards Bofur, pointing a spoon.

‘So, _Imn’adad,_ what’re we teaching him today?’

Bofur shrugged. ‘The hobbit named his pony. I told him she had a name already.’

‘Oof, you know who’ll get stuffy if you go round teaching Khuzdul to non-dwarrow, though?’ grinned Kíli wickedly.

‘Aye, of course,’ replied Bofur assuredly, ‘Dwalin.’

‘Nope!’ crowed Kíli. ‘He’ll give you a bit of stink-eye, but he’s – ’

‘Balin, then,’ interrupted Bofur uncertainly.

‘Nuh-uh. Balin’s reasonable. He’d be the first to tell you he’s got more important things to worry about.’

‘Lord Thorin?’

‘Come on. You’ve heard him curse in Khuzdul in front of humans on a bad day,’ Kíli said proudly, Fíli nodding sagely.

‘Dori,’ interjected Nori with finality.

‘Well, yes,’ said Kíli, eyeing the slender dwarf. ‘Your brother does stand on ceremony even if we try to get Ori not to. But no, it’s Glóin you really need to worry about. Whoo-ee, did he hit the cavern ceiling when Óin swapped a few Khuzdul names of herbs for common with the halfling’s apothecary!’

Fíli pointedly poked at what remained of his stew. ‘I don’t see the harm, Bilbo’s part of the Company now. What’s a few Khuzdul names to a halfling? Bifur speaks it all the time, after all.’

 _Hobbit,_ corrected Bilbo to himself, yet it was more out of habit than anything. Encouraged by turn of the conversation, he found his natural curiosity bursting up from his chest, expressing words that until now had been stuck at the tip of his tongue.

‘Um, pardon my asking. You don’t have to say, if you don’t want to. But I am interested. What does Myrtle’s dwarvish name mean?’

Fíli smiled at him, showing his dimples, and despite himself Bilbo felt warmed by the young dwarf’s inclusion. ‘Bofur? Go on,’ said Fíli, nodding to the other to continue as he finished his food.

‘ _Ethak Mim._ It means, “Little Trundle”. Like a minecart.’

‘Wheels and all,’ finished Kíli. ‘Bit cranky, hard to get moving and harder to stop. She was a packpony before you showed up.’

‘Huh.’ Bilbo considered this. He rather thought Myrtle was a prettier name.

‘Will you give my pony a hobbit name, too?’ asked Kíli eagerly, and Fíli grinned at his brother’s enthusiasm for anything of the world outside dwarrow-kind.

‘I – I sort of already have. For all of them,’ admitted Bilbo.

‘Passing the time, eh, Bilbo? We’ve got a ways to go yet, you’ll soon run out of things to name,’ cracked Bofur lightly, pulling a wry laugh from the other dwarves. ‘You want my advice, try sleeping at saddle. Just try not to fall off.’ _They’re laughing at me, but they definitely don’t sound unkind this time_ , thought Bilbo, feeling a little braver.

‘Which one is yours again?’

Kíli pointed out one of the brown ponies grazing on the hillside nearby.

‘Oh, I see. That one’s Toffee.’

‘Toffee,’ said Kíli slowly, turning the word over to himself. ‘What – ’

‘It’s a kind of sweet snack that we make in the Shire, the same colour as your pony. Looks like burnt honey,’ said Bilbo quickly, his face reddening again.

‘Ah. Food,’ said Kíli. He appeared momentarily torn between disappointment and fascination, his brother chuckling at his expression.

‘Can – can I ask what the dwarvish name is?’ said Bilbo tentatively.

‘Oh, sure,’ Kíli brightened up again, glad to share. ‘It’s…’ The name sounded like _‘Falr’_ to Bilbo’s ears, but he couldn’t be certain. ‘It means “Arrowpoint On Shaft”.’

‘What’s my one called?’ asked Bofur. With Kíli still beaming at him, Bilbo was suddenly excruciatingly aware of the lofty poetic sensibilities of the dwarven language against the guileless simplicity of Shire common, which he guessed would remain sorely lacking by comparison. His throat tightening in embarrassment, he plunged on determinedly.

‘Yours is the dun, right?’ croaked Bilbo, and when Bofur nodded in the affirmative, replied ‘Daisy.’

‘Daisy,’ repeated Bofur agreeably, to Bilbo’s surprise. ‘I like it. It fits her sweetness. _Nanag_ would be the closest, it means blossom. I called her “Sunshine On Ore”,’ he said, ‘ _Ibrizinlêkh aya Akâk._ Like finding a vein of precious metal in open bedrock, shining in the light of the morning sun,’ he savoured the words, his eyes twinkling.

‘And Bombur’s?’ said Bilbo, warming now to the task.

‘The red dun,’ said Bombur easily, gnawing on the end of a grass stalk, and sounded the Khuzdul as one single flowing word, _Mikilu Lakhad Zanut Amrâlê._ ‘Means, “Bright Copper Of My Love’s Hair”,’ he added heartily. ‘ _Mikil,_ or Copper, for short.’

‘Because it’s true,’ cut in Bofur mischievously. ‘The wife,’ he explained as an aside to Bilbo.

‘Oh! Oh, that’s lovely, really. _Mikil,’_ repeated Bilbo tentatively, and each of the dwarves looked, to varying degrees, something between astonished and enchanted to hear Khuzdul coming out of hobbit vocal cords. ‘I called her Buttercup.’

‘Not bad,’ the large dwarf assented. He pointed to Bifur. ‘He’s got the red roan, what about her?’

‘That’s easy,’ said Bilbo, just as Bifur made a little spiral sign with thumb and two fingers. ‘Ruby,’ Bilbo told them, at the same time as Bofur translated the _iglishmêk_ aloud, ‘Ruby.’

Bifur made a triumphant noise and raised his eyebrows cheerfully at Bilbo; all at once, the hobbit found himself bursting into delighted and genuine laughter, right alongside the dwarves.

‘In our language, Ruby is _Barazamrâl’aban_. Translates as the red love stone.’

‘That is… well – ’

‘Not at all an innuendo,’ supplied Nori, and Bofur kicked him.

Fíli, smiling broadly, lifted his chin towards the hillside. ‘And the others?’

Bilbo shaded his eyes and considered the ponies cropping the sweet grass.

‘The one Balin is riding. That very white one. Snowy,’ he pronounced, and Kíli thumped his thigh.

‘ _Labamrazûkhul!_ We’re not so different after all! He called her _Nûlukhu Iklaladrân._ “Winter’s Moon”.’

Bilbo paused for a moment, allowing the syllables to wash over him. He liked how they sounded, said this way – not the cursing he’d heard from the Company already, nor the crude lyrics yelled out by Bofur in song. This was a name sounded out in affection, the language spoken easily, lovingly, the syllables and sounds coming so naturally and with pride and enjoyment, through which he was granted the rare privilege – he was well aware – of a window into the resplendent aesthetic of Khuzdul. It was lyrical yet majestic, earthed and epic and poetic all at the same time. Each word, to Bilbo, was a kaleidoscope of their culture and fit them utterly, the long, full vowels, the glottal and sometimes guttural consonants, the musical intonations braided throughout. So like their intricate hair, the detail in their boldly crafted clothes and weapons, the rough edges of their humour and playfulness threaded through the wary and sometimes fiercely belligerent way they had with outsiders, thinly veiling so much more under the surface – a stern magnificence, perhaps vast underground halls lined with jewels, statues made of gold. Kings on thrones cut into rock.

Bilbo came out of his reverie, seven dwarven faces looking expectantly at him, Kíli especially.

‘You know, that is quite beautiful. I rather do prefer the Khuzdul.’

‘You do?’ Kíli appeared rapt.

‘Well, yes,’ said Bilbo, still surprised himself. ‘The black pony is the healer’s, I think. Rosie.’

‘Óin’s? _Irzêd'arisiwu 'Urs,_ or “Fire Ember”. _Laslul_ means rose-like.’

Bilbo found himself wondering if they would consent to speaking only in Khuzdul around him for a time, so that he might immerse himself completely in the sound.

‘Hm, yes. And the red-haired dwarf with the great beard, I thought “Stormy” for his mount, because he’s dark and has a temper. The pony, I mean. He tried to bite Myrtle again the other day.’ Bilbo shrugged. ‘Does what it says on the jar,’ he added self-deprecatingly, but not without humour.

He might actually be enjoying himself, he realised with amazement.

‘Fair call. A word for stormy is _Ablâkbagdul,_ but Glóin’s gelding is _Ithraru ‘Adadtharr._ “Boulder of Granite”.’ Here Nori snorted loudly, causing Bofur to grin and dig his elbow into the muscles of the wiry dwarf’s arm, while the younger ones sniggered. ‘That one doesn’t translate well to common. _Not_ another way of saying big stones, by Durin, Nori, you’ve the mind of a stripling sometimes!’

Bilbo, vaguely understanding that the titters were once again down to some kind of dwarven ribaldry, waited patiently for them to calm down. Then he pointed. ‘There’s another pale grey. Bit more colour than Balin’s. Your brother’s?’ said Bilbo to Nori, who nodded wryly.

‘Yeah, the flashy one with the darker mane and chestnut face. Dori calls her _Balb aya ‘Urd Zudrâ._ “Ice On Mountain’s High Peak”,’ he said with no small amount of derision. The other dwarves hummed with mirth.

‘I thought Minty.’

‘Hm. He’d hate that,’ approved Nori. ‘Mine’s the grey dun.’

‘Smoky.’

Nori made a grudgingly conceding face. ‘ _Sharul,_ yeah, why not.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Y’know, I think I like that better’n _Askâd Dush._ “Dark Shadow”,’ he added in translation.

‘And the dirty great blonde? The one built solid enough to carry our resident war machine,’ prompted Bofur.

‘Dwalin’s? Chalky.’

 _‘Bulumlabam’abbanul?’_ Kíli fell over laughing. ‘S a bit different from _Sutulfalad aya Beshek,_ or “Battleaxe On Bone”,’ he hooted.

‘Mine’s got a strong dwarvish name too,’ cut in Ori, who had been following the conversation closely, yet fidgeting in eagerness to talk.

‘It’s _Siginhakhdu Galt_ , “Boar Tusk”,’ he said proudly, and found himself accosted with backslaps.

‘Good on you, lad.’

‘That’s the attitude.’

‘All the way to Erebor, Ori.’

Bilbo was quiet, watching the unobtrusive little brown gelding nosing flowers on the hillside. ‘I call that one Bungo.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Ori curiously, once the others left off.

Bilbo chewed on his lower lip before answering. ‘My father’s name.’

‘Oh…’ murmured Ori, pulling book and quill from his leather satchel and making a little note. Kíli and Bofur leaned forward attentively, while Fíli sat back to listen, not wanting to spook the little hobbit from finally sharing something of himself.

‘Yes,’ said Bilbo reflectively. ‘He was kind, quiet, big-hearted. Yet determined. And stubborn with optimism. A gentle hobbit of words and verse.’ He looked at Ori now, and shared a tentative smile with the young dwarf. ‘Not entirely wrong, am I?’

Fíli, impressed, gave Bilbo a tiny nod of recognition, while Ori ducked his head, glowing. Then he raised it again.

‘That leaves five.’

‘There’s Gandalf’s horse, but I didn’t think it right to name him.’

Bifur made a curious sign and the other dwarves picked up dirt and threw it over their left shoulders, Bilbo noted with interest. He let it go, assuming they did this out of the same feeling that had discouraged him from allowing even a nickname for the imposing creature. Names had power. You never knew, with wizards.

‘Strawberry and Hazelnut are the other packponies,’ continued Bilbo. ‘I’d run out of ideas, that’s what I had for second breakfast that particular day.’

‘Trundle Two and Trundle Three,’ said Bofur apologetically, ‘So did we. But _Halwmurn_ and _Buzralâz_ suits just fine.’

‘What about my brother’s?’ urged Kíli. ‘His is the dappled grey. The one with the blonde mane. Like this,’ he grabbed Fíli’s head, tilting him at the chin to show Bilbo the streak of silver-white that wound through the braid at his left temple, weaving through the golden locks and ending in a geometric metal bead. The bead looked the same as that which clasped Kíli’s hair at the back of his head, Bilbo realised, and the one that sat in Thorin’s hair on the right side, where they had their own streaks of silver. Another dwarven cultural practice unfathomable to hobbits, no doubt.

Fíli took this treatment tolerantly, grunting a little in mild annoyance but allowing his brother to hold his head in place and jab an insistent finger at the braid.

‘His pony’s name, in Khuzdul, is _Sanzigil aya Biriz._ It means “Mithril Upon Gold”,’ Kíli explained.

‘What’s mithril?’

The two young dwarves shot each other an almost imperceptible glance, Kíli’s hands falling away from his brother’s face.

‘ _Sanzigil?_ Dwarven silver-steel,’ said Bofur casually. ‘Used to be mined in what’s now known as Moria. Strongest stuff in the world.’

‘Oh,’ said Bilbo, ‘Well. I called him Misty.’ He didn’t notice, but Fíli’s eyes unfocused at the word.

‘Mist… what?’ said Fíli stupidly.

‘Misty,’ Bilbo said again, ‘…that’s the name I gave. Doesn’t really match the dwarvish, does it.’

Fíli shook his head and refocused on him. ‘Oh… oh no… it’s… good. It’s nice,’ he murmured, blinking a little as if to clear something in his eyes. ‘Misty would be _Malasul._ Um. So that leaves Thorin’s mare,’ he followed on quickly.

‘The Khuzdul is _Thurkhu Dufburul Tajnidi,’_ and here Bilbo’s eyes watered in sympathy for the dwarf’s throat. ‘Meaning, “The Way Ahead Opens”. That’s high Khuzdul. In low, it’s _Anshat,_ or “Seeker”.’

‘Appropriate,’ said Nori innocently, which Fíli ignored.

‘So, what name did you give Thorin’s pony?’

‘Not at all as grand. Just Goldie,’ replied Bilbo. There were a couple of beats of silence.

Fíli smiled only a little this time, tight around the eyes. ‘Also fitting,’ he finally said quietly, ‘but let’s maybe keep the common names to just us, shall we?’ Beside him, Kíli had become inexplicably quiet, and the rest of the Company retreated to their own thoughts.

Just then they heard a call from across the camp, a deep resounding voice, echoing on the grassed hillside. ‘Fíli! Kíli! Are the ponies watered?’ It was Thorin; the other dwarves and Gandalf were emerging from their council.

‘Did I say something wrong?’ said Bilbo in some consternation as the two heirs leapt up in haste. He berated himself inwardly. Had he found a new camaraderie with some of the dwarves, only to immediately and inadvertently have it lost? _Put my foot right in it_ , _somehow,_ he thought sourly.

‘Oh, no. No, Bilbo, it’s fine,’ said Bofur, getting up with his bowl and motioning for Nori to help him gather up the others. ‘We like your names.’

‘Yours are poetry,’ Bilbo was downcast, seeing the way the rest of the dwarves quickly excused themselves and went about their duties.

‘Aye. And yet sometimes simple is best,’ said Bofur, and winked at him. ‘We dwarves get far too caught up in ourselves, as I’m sure you’ll find. Come on now. Help us with the dishes, will you?’

If only to cling to that tenuous feeling of belonging that was already fast slipping away, Bilbo was only too happy to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on the neo-Khuzdul:  
> The neo-Khuzdul is strong in this chapter, because who doesn’t like Thorin speaking in dwarvish? 
> 
> 1\. Names  
> These translations were first searched from The Dwarrow Scholar’s dictionary, and then the grammatical structure/syntax directly checked by email, by the esteemed scholar themself! I love this fandom. The sounds of the neo-Khuzdul really pleased me, I think they match the intent behind the original names dreamed up in English.
> 
> Note, there is no such thing as ‘high’ or ‘low’ neo-Khuzdul, that conceit belongs to my own headcanon for the purpose of this fic. However, both of the names for Thorin’s mare are correct neo-Khuzdul. Any other error is entirely mine. 
> 
> The exception is Falr, Kili’s pony, which is still from Gould 1929 Dwarf-Names: A Study in Old Icelandic Religion, https://www.jstor.org/stable/457704?seq=1 
> 
> 2\. Other khuzdul and neo-khuzdul words not translated in text:  
> Ansaru: Company  
> Ithki: mine! As in, my own (imperative)  
> Iznigê: show me courage (colloquial)  
> Imditê: show me heart (colloquial)  
> ra: and  
> Amnas: loyalty  
> khazdûn zai bark: male dwarf with the axe  
> Ignigí: go on! Imperative, plural (note there should be a circumflex accent on the final I, but it looks strange so I used the acute instead)  
> Agrâthul: greedy  
> Lulkh: fool  
> Imn’adad: kind of like a godfather, one outside immediate kin who knows a young dwarf’s inner name - this idea and word is direct from the Neo-Khuzdul dictionary so DS may have thought it up, or included it from another writer's fic - all acknowledgement to the OG. In my HC, the Imn'adad is charged with providing shelter, protection and guidance when asked, and depending on their age and relationship to the younger, they may behave like a parent, uncle, or even an older brother. In this AU, Bofur is Fili’s quite brotherly Imn’adad and for good reason. Can you guess which dwarf is Kili’s?  
> ‘Urd: DS says this word for mountain is specific to the Erebor region, and ‘abad is the word they are more likely to use in the Ered Luin. Dori’s nothing if not socially ambitious, so I’m having him use ‘urd.
> 
> New OC's intro'd in this chapter:  
> Örn, Luarc's wedge-tailed eagle


	9. First Divergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which this timeline begins to tremble. Rifts in the Company begin to show, Dís receives an unwelcome message, and Aulë’s disquiet deepens. Also in which we learn a little more about dwarrow relationships, and Fíli and Kíli’s parentage specifically. 
> 
> Note: Have upped the rating on this fic to M.

In a camp by a little woodland stream, the deep night pooled among sleeping dwarves, one wizard, and one hobbit.

Thorin always took his rest on the outer edge of the Company. From here, back to stone by preference, every twitch and shadow at the edge of their campsite was easily seen. Each slumbering shape tallied in between the flag and hitch of his own eyelids. They were his responsibility. It had ever been so, from the time of the dragon, down the long years, until now.

This night, he drifted. His mind was especially fogged and weary, slowed by the sleeproot but not enough to swallow him in dreamlessness, as he desired. The nightly doses were wearing weak and thin in effect. He grasped the thought as it floated past; he would have to ask Óin to find more.

He let himself fade in and out of something that was not yet slumber, drawn by the dark and all its sounds – the faint thrum of midnight frogs, the low, soft call of a pheasant coucal. From the slow ebbing current of not-quite-but-almost sleep emerged memories of past selves, each one as alone in an empty ocean of night. The leaner Thorins, grim to the tasks of the road and the years of war, fresh in bitter disappointment with the world. Those that still had the fight and conviction to wrestle down any self-doubt that hunted at him, rank with worry in the small hours.

His eyes reflected indigo, searching upward as if he could find surety in the indifferent stars that wheeled above.

He shifted against the stone.

_Was I wrong to do this?_

Fíli appeared on the surface of his thoughts, talking his dreams of halflings without guile nor pretence. Thorin had dismissed him at the time, a molten creep of inexplicable frustration curling in his chest, and his golden nephew had not spoken of dreams to him again.

_Does the hobbit still fill the lad’s sleep-visions? What do I care if it is so?_

The night billowed dark around him.

As for his own…

He rose suddenly, leaving the imprint of dwarf in the pad of his blankets and fur-lined coat. Clad only in his light linen undershirt and trousers, his braids shadowing to his chest save the one line of silver lanced by starlight, he stepped gently to where the ponies slept as they stood. As quiet as he was, the mare turned to look at him as he approached.

_‘Anshat.’_

He smoothed the tousled hairs on her neck, talking softly, knowing full well his hands running the coarse length of her dark mane were for himself.

There was one sleeping shape he’d avoided, although he knew well enough the smoothness of jaw, the delicate tip of the ear poking from curls, the soft bow of lips parted in sleep. Ever since he’d first laid eyes on the face of the being he’d been dreaming for years, his dreams had clarified around a set of recurring narratives:

_They are in a hot place, and it smells of burning pine. Thorin feels nothing but pain, and sees nothing but Bilbo, his face unrecognizable, set in new hard lines, eyes bloodshot with desperate fear –_

_They are in a high place. Thorin can feel wind rush around them and it cuts astringent at his skin. Feathers drift on the currents, soothing his wounds like warm sunshine. There stands Bilbo with that look of embarrassment and what-have-I-done-wrong-now, the same look that settles on his face every time Thorin is near. That rabbit in a snare look, Dwalin had told Thorin early in the journey, and they’d laughed briefly about it, harshly, unkindly. But this time Thorin feels no disdain. He feels – he feels –_

_They are in a dark, cool place. There is a cloying sweet stench of gold. Bilbo wears a dazzling chainmail of mithril, like the dwarven warriors of old, back in the Ages when the stuff was spilling from Khazad-dûm like silver fountains. Thorin cannot speak, only marks the glittered rays the mithril casts across the walls in the candlelight. The hobbit’s eyes, grey-blue-brown, search out his own, serious, questioning, and almost sad. His hands are closed in fists, and he holds them out. ‘Choose,’ he whispers to Thorin. ‘I know this hurts you, but you must choose.’ And Thorin is suddenly ice-cold with dread –_

_They are in a cold place, and Thorin’s bones are numb to any feeling. He floats on a sea of Bilbo’s eyes, on warm words between them, on the halfling – the hobbit’s – hands on his chest, and in his hair. The hobbit is cradling him, he realises in shock, and passing a small shaking hand over his braids. Holding he, Thorin Oakenshield, as if he were a small child, or something else entirely. But there is no time to dwell on the strangeness of the intimacy; there is something he needs to say to Bilbo. He tries, but his lungs feel filled with something liquid. He searches Bilbo’s face instead, tries to shape the words, but they don’t come. He thinks Bilbo is forcing himself to return his gaze, to witness something important. Thorin tries to lift his hand to the hobbit’s face. He tries to say – he tries to –_

The small hours hidden by night’s veil did nothing to help Thorin parse the disturb of the dreams.

His forehead found Anshat’s neck, face between his hands.

‘Why him?’ he murmured to the mare. For the life of him, he could not understand his own mind, as baffled by it as by Tharkûn’s choice. That _creature._ Sheltered. Untested. Soft. That small face, always confounded, always questioning. Bereft of the simplest ways and cues of being dwarf, trying too hard and saying the wrong thing, intuiting nothing of worth. Always finding him whether awake or in dreams, locking that unbearable gaze to him, assessing, _asking._

_What is it about this infuriating halfling?_

The mare gave him no answers. She curled her neck around his side and nipped at the small of his back, trying in vain to return the grooming.

‘Thorin.’

He had felt the old warrior quietly approach from where Bofur tended to the fire, embers crackling to life in the dark.

‘Lad, will you speak to me of what is troubling you?’

Thorin’s fingers tightened and Anshat grew skittish in response, dancing a couple of steps away from him. He put as much flint into his stare as he could under darkness.

‘I am fine, Balin.’ He steered his voice steady, remote.

The elder’s posture spoke volumes of knowing otherwise, but he only pursed his lips and tucked his hands behind his back.

‘Very well. Do you think it past time to return a raven?’

Thorin grunted. ‘Send Nori. Bofur and his cousin can accompany him.’ He gave Anshat’s nose a final pass, then turned and made his way past Balin to the fire. ‘When next we find a village.’

‘What shall I write for you?’ asked Balin staunchly, stretching his legs and wincing a little to keep up.

‘That we are making good time, the lads are hale, and we have faced no grief on this journey. That is sufficient.’

Balin made no reply but quickly knelt down, unseen as he was to Thorin’s back, and pressed his fingers to stone.

‘May Mahal give you strength, laddie,’ he whispered. ‘May Mahal watch over us all.’

^^^

‘Come on Bombur, we’re hungry.’

Bombur raised ginger brows to Ori, who gave an uncomfortable shrug as he led Buttercup and Bungo away. Thorin’s voice had a hard bitten off edge to it, and no-one had missed Tharkûn stalking off in a pique.

‘On the way, no worries,’ murmured the dwarf with aplomb, re-arranging his massive plait on his belly and beginning to unfasten provisions from the packponies.

‘No surprises there, then,’ placated Bofur, coming over and patting him on the shoulder, before helping him untie the cookpot. ‘Just a matter of time before they stepped on eachother’s beards.’

‘Don’t care what’s going on with the wizard, Thorin shouldn’t speak to Bombur like that. No call for it.’

Nori appeared from Hazelnut’s other flank, hoisting off the camp equipment and throwing it to the ground with more force than absolutely necessary. Clicking his tongue, he pushed the pony’s rump in the direction of Fíli and Kíli, who were rubbing the ponies down at the edge of the small copse of wood before setting them to graze.

‘If I got treated like that on guard escort, I’d tell the captain to shove it where the sun ain’t never shone.’

‘It’s just a bad hour, is all,’ said Bombur. ‘Bad humours and empty stomachs. It’ll pass.’

Nori sorted through the gear with his foot, his face set stubbornly, ‘No, he’s getting worse, treating everyone like he's been treating that halfling. That’s how it starts. Push down one, shove down all.’ He stabbed a finger in Bombur’s direction. ‘He keeps doing that, you should pick up and go home to the Ered Luin. I’d like to see him cook his own damn rabbit stew.’

‘Contract,’ reminded Bombur lightly, hefting the cookpot over to where Glóin and his brother had made a circle of stones around a growing pile of dead wood for the fire-pit. The others picked up the provisions and cooking implements and followed him, Bofur falling into stride with Nori and backing his brother up with a gesture. ‘Aye, a contract, and gold, I can’t imagine you’ve already forgotten?’

‘I’ve got half a mind to up tools to Dunland myself, gold or no, if he’s going to keep barking orders. I’m not Dori, I’m not having with it, and neither should Bombur or you. Lord Thorin of a miner’s colony he might be, but King Thorin’s he’s not until he’s square in that mountain with a dead drake at his feet, the Arkenstone in his grip and gold sprouting from his beard. Then he gets my attention. Mine and dwarrow from the Luin to the Rhûn, apparently.’

‘Hey now, calm your boots,’ said Bofur, feeling a little affronted. ‘Not his fault the other lords couldn’t be bothered getting their braids dirty.’

Nori sniffed rudely. ‘I dunno whether that stripling heir’s got more of a chance of inspiring the seven clans to Erebor’n Thorin, anyway. I hope he does, just in case Thorin goes arse over tits tryin’ to find that damn mountain again.’

‘Goat’s _kakhf_ , Nori, leave the lads out of it. What’s wrong with you today? I saw your face when Balin talked about Azanulbizar. You were thinking of more than gold that night.’

Nori’s face twisted in annoyance as he unpacked salted meat and dried herbs, and the few tubers they’d found at the last campsite, pushing them towards Bombur. ‘You know sod all. You’ve let them get to you. Again. Here, I know,’ he grinned evilly at Bombur, brandishing a small package of firespice. ‘Khand special. Dump it in his bowl, teach him to watch his tongue.’

‘Don’t you even think about touching my cooking let alone fighting my battles,’ said Bombur flatly, holding up his ladle in warning. ‘Thorin’s stretched thin and brittle with worry, and any dwarf risking what he is would have a stiff old neck. I won’t hear any more of it, _no-delve._ ’ The put-down in Khuzdul, accompanied by an emphatic twist of the wrist and thumb, had the effect of silencing Nori.

The rangy dwarf shoved the spice back into the pack then stomped away, speaking to the air as he went. ‘Need to sharpen the knives.’

‘What was that strop all about?’ said Bombur after a time, as he sliced salted meat into the heating cookpot.

Bofur puckered his chin unhappily, puffing at a wisp of hair. ‘Go easy on him, brother. You can see Dori’s getting on his braids.’

‘He’s your friend. You would know.’

‘Always been like this. Too many dwarrow around, he can't breathe. One lord is one too many in his mind.’

‘Mm. Then he’d best take his own advice, lump it or leave it.’ Bombur indicated to the cookpot with his head. ‘Pass the herbs?’

^^^

Dusk had long since fallen before the stew was ready. A night strong with stars washed the little copse and hillside with silvered blue.

Bilbo, still worried about Gandalf, wrung his hands and cast searching looks into the evening.

‘He’s a wizard! He does as he chooses.’ Bofur slopped stew into bowls for Thorin and the Fundin brothers first, handing them to Bifur to carry them over. It was pretty much the same order every night. Gandalf and the elder Durins, with or without the younger ones who were often off doing chores, then Óin and Glóin, followed by Dori and his brothers, and finally Bombur and Bifur. Bofur scoffed spoonfuls in between his running commentary and loud joking as he filled others’ bowls for seconds; he always made sure the hobbit was never last in receiving his bowl, Bilbo had been gratified to find, and he always kept just enough for him to take another helping.

The hobbit had just returned his empty bowl to Nori, who sat with rolled up sleeves by the washbowl and a dark frown furrowing his forehead.

‘Here,’ Bofur called to him. ‘Do us a favour. Take this to the lads.’

Bilbo waited as Bofur carefully balanced bowls on his arm to dole out chunks doused in good-smelling gravy.

‘Bofur?’

‘Yes, Master Hobbit?’

‘Thorin is a king, that’s what Balin said.’

Bofur eyed him, slowing his spooning. ‘By inheritance, yes. Technically.’

‘But you say Lord.’

‘It is what he is,’ agreed Bofur neutrally.

Bilbo tried from another angle. ‘But surely that makes his nephews royalty?’

‘Again, yes, by blood.’ Bofur leaned the ladle on the side of the cookpot for a moment. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, why don’t you, er, we, refer to Fíli and Kíli as your highness?’

‘Like my prince this, your highness that? Ah, well,’ Bofur relaxed, amused, but nevertheless sent a quick check from beneath his dark brows towards the sitting fire where Thorin and the other dwarves lounged. He leaned forward, confiding in a low voice.

‘After Dunland, for a long time there was hardly a court to speak of in Thorin’s Halls.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Come to think of it, there was hardly a Hall at all. Just a fat old mountain other dwarves thought was barren of any raw material worth scraping out the bottom of the bedrock. And too close to spooky ol’ Nogrod besides,’ Bofur wiggled his fingers to indicate dwarvish superstition, but sighed good-naturedly and carried on when all he got from Bilbo was blank incomprehension.

‘Anyway, Thorin and those who’d chosen to follow him west carved a home out of that stone,’ Bofur grinned and indicated himself and his little family, ‘which, as it happens, hid a nice big seam of silver bearing mineral. We got there in the end, but by Mahal, it started humble. Cave dwellings, just like trolls. Bathing in the stream. Lime pits to go and do your business. We even used _wood alone_ to build shelter at one point, can you believe it,’ and here Bilbo did look horrified, because if there was one thing a hobbit could understand from a dwarf’s point of view, it was the need to delve beneath the earth. ‘It’s a wonder dwarrow stayed, but stay they did. Big part of that was Thorin and his sister, the lads’ mother.’

Bofur stirred the stew, warmed to the telling.

‘And those boys, the two of them grew up sons of smiths, miners and masons for first, learned to blacksmith and stone-shape for second, and guarding at the last. This thing, being an heir, well.’ Bofur flourished the ladle. ‘First of Durin’s line they may be, but Thorin made damn sure they knew how a hall is run from the inside out, by the crafters. No lazy inheritance for his sister-sons, no. No easy gold for them. It’s why I respect him and the boys. Isn’t that right, Nori?’ finished Bofur loudly.

Bilbo watched Bofur and Bombur turn their heads expectantly in Nori’s direction, where he sat at his dirty dishwater. The rangy dwarf huffed a little and muttered, ‘Right.’

Bofur, looking pleased for some reason, continued on. ‘And it was touch and go for Thorin getting his own heir for a while there.’

‘Oh?’

‘Oh, aye. He tried, anyway, I think he thought it a duty. And in the trying figured it wasn’t for him. He’s definitely one of us that’d sooner stay wed to the work.’ He hummed. ‘Sister-sons indeed. The lads mean that much to him.’ Bofur continued with his ladling, slopping a little into the bowls.

‘Same goes for him, by the way. In his own mind he’s not king.’ The dwarf paused again before adding quietly, ‘Nor in the minds of other dwarves. Not yet.’

‘I see,’ said Bilbo, even though he didn’t. ‘Wait a minute,’ he was startled from his thoughts by Bofur bumping two full bowls of stew into his hands. ‘…did you say smiths, miners _and_ masons sons?’

‘Yes,’ Bofur looked at him, perplexed at the question. ‘Do you need an ear trumpet, too? It’s the reason why our family’s on this trip to begin with.’ He glanced again to the fire. ‘One of them, anyway. Their _amad_ – mother – is a blacksmith. My cousin sat with one of their fathers in the mason’s guild before... before his own accident, and Bombur and I knew their other _adad_ – I mean da – from the mines. They were our friends,’ he explained simply, and a little sadly. ‘Good dwarves both, the best of the lot in the low council. It’s a pity.’

‘...One of their fathers...' said Bilbo helplessly. 'Their _other_ da…?’

‘Yes, just like me and Bom are ‘other da’s’ to our little ones. We are their _addad._ ’ Bofur pronounced the plural with an elongated consonant in the middle of the word.

‘Being as we’re wed to the same lady.’

Bilbo choked a little, his eyes round as the cookpot.

‘I’m sorry, what? I thought – ’

‘You thought what?’ said Bofur calmly, scraping the ladle and hooking it on the cookpot, wiping his hands on a rag he had slung over his shoulder.

‘You said she was Bombur’s wife… the pony’s name…’

‘Aye, the wife. _Our_ wife. Now, get going before the stew gets cold,’ Bofur winked, ‘And just remember, titles don’t mean much for them. They’re alright, those lads.’ Bofur’s shooing motion turned into a sideways rap, knocking Bombur’s reaching hand out of the way. ‘And no you don’t, you’ve had two already.’

‘I’ll have Nori’s share, shall I?’ said Bombur genially, clapping Nori’s shoulder where he was hunched over the washbowl.

‘Oh, stop it,’ said Bofur, his brother’s unspoken apology not lost on him, nor Nori’s imperceptibly signed acceptance. ‘You’ve had plenty.’

^^^

Fíli and Kíli sat atop a rock at the edge of the small copse of wood in which the ponies were loosely tethered. They were out of hobbit pipeweed already, Kíli had been chagrined to find, after they’d finished scrubbing down the ponies and ensuring they were watered and fed. They passed their time chewing soothe-herb instead.

Kíli had drawn a grid on the rock at his feet with a small piece of chalkstone, and in each square he’d sketched a little figure or symbol. ‘Um, raven, goat, boar…’ he pointed along each row, ‘orc, dragon, fire,’ then the final three, ‘gold, mithril, Bilbo.’ Then he leaned forward and crossed some of the squares with a diagonal line. ‘Last night, I had… let’s see… ravens, goats, orcs, fire, and…’ he finished with a flourish, running a triumphant line through the square containing a figure with exceptionally large hairy feet. ‘…and Bilbo!’ He turned to his brother expectantly. ‘You?’

Fíli looked down consideringly. ‘Cross out all of them.’

‘That’s dross, you’re messing with me. You dreamed them all in one night?’

‘Do my eyes lie?’

Kíli grumbled, looking suspiciously at the drag in the hoods of his brother’s eyes, and struck a line through each square in the opposite diagonal to his own. Then he palmed at the chalk lines, blurring the images into the stone.

‘You win. Anyway, I dream of more than that.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Fíli knowingly. ‘An elf, maybe?’

Kíli looked up. ‘How did you know? Wait,’ a trace of panic spread across his features. ‘Was I…’

‘…signing in your sleep again, yes.’

‘Oh.’

Fíli couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips, and it grew deeper at Kíli’s discomfort.

‘Interesting choice. Elves.’

‘ _You_ talk about Aévr in your sleep.’

‘Well deflected, brother,’ said Fíli.

Kíli affected an innocent expression. ‘Aévr _and_ Leisl.’

‘Oh, here we go…’

‘No wonder you still talk about them.’

‘Is it me that can’t stop referring to that one time?’ Fíli rolled his eyes, then sighed, deciding to indulge the nostalgia. If anything, it did to pass the evening. ‘I did the honourable thing.’

‘Poor Fíli. Such a duty,’ jibed Kíli, mirth causing his eyes to almost disappear in his face. It was never not funny to make his older brother revisit the story.

‘Leisl was disappointed when you didn’t show up,’ Fíli reminded him mildly.

‘That’s another way of saying you were second fiddle,’ said Kíli, smug. ‘To me!’

‘I’ve never doubted that, brother,’ chuckled Fíli. Then he added a little defensively, ‘You know she was there to chaperone Aévr. I almost fell over when she sent him away and asked for my favour.’

‘More like she did you a favour…’

‘I didn’t do anything she did not want.’

‘That leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.’

‘Kíli! She took a kiss…’

‘Bit more than a kiss, is what she said…’

‘…then I stopped it.’

‘Why?’ queried Kíli blithely. ‘All those red-brown curls, like rose garnet. Her skin, Mahal, it’s like milk. And her jeweller’s hands! So fine and skilled. Why would you refuse?’

‘You know why.’ Fíli looked askance at his brother, the set of his mouth troubled. ‘It wouldn’t have been right without speaking with Aévr. Or you, for that matter.’

‘Don’t use me as an excuse,’ retorted Kíli, feigning injury. 

‘You know there’s a lot more riding on betrothal than whether we find another appealing,’ Fíli chided gently.

‘And I know we have decades before we must choose,’ the younger dwarf beamed a cheesy, candid grin. He dug his brother in the ribs, eliciting a half grunt, half wheeze. ‘If at all. Anyway. All _she_ wanted was a useful pair of Longbeard sibling-husbands as a pass for Durin’s throne, with or without her brother. That adad of theirs is a scheming old rustbucket.’

‘Mm. Wasn’t surprised when they went and got betrothed to Lord Kaegred’s sons.’

‘Ah, I feel sorry for Aévr,’ chortled Kíli.

‘Better to be the second spouse to a future lord than to a dwarf who just lost their claim to Erebor. You know, on account of being cooked by a dragon.’ Fíli looked down, a crease appearing between his eyes.

Kíli’s grin upended to a repentant wince. ‘Oh, _nadad_. I didn’t mean to…’

‘It’s fine. Really. He’ll be all right in Kaegred’s Halls with his books and his drafting, laughing at Leisl’s airs. He’s probably sitting there now, growing a magnificent beard and thanking his Maker he’s not risking it on a quest few dwarrow wanted to aid...’

‘Bunch of gold-diggers, that’s what Dwalin said,’ Kíli declared with a final surge of relish.

‘Aévr isn’t like that,’ Fíli protested lightly, and then glanced at him. ‘Nor Ebba, isn’t that right, brother?’

Kíli sighed. ‘No. No, she isn’t.’ Fíli wisely refrained from enquiring on the whereabouts of Kíli’s shield-sister in his dreams.

The two sat for a time in reflective silence.

‘Wager on what we dream of tonight.’

‘Alright, you’re on,’ said Fíli stoically.

Kíli ticked them off on his fingers. ‘One, gold, obviously. Two, the mountain. Three…’ he squinted, looking past his fingers.

‘Three?’

‘Fíli…where’s Daisy and Bungo?’

^

‘Drop him!’

‘I said, _drop him_!’

^

_‘Thorin!’_

Thorin turned smoothly and fixed a stare to his nephew as Fíli came crashing at speed out of the woods.

‘Where is Kíli,’ growled Thorin, his face hardening, as beside him Dwalin reached for his warhammer.

‘It’s Bilbo! And the ponies! _Quick!’_

Thorin had Deathless in hand and was making for the woods before the rest of the Company had got to their feet, Dwalin and Glóin close behind him.

‘What did the halfling do?’ he snarled as he sprinted past Fíli, his heir gasping for breath with his hands on his knees. ‘I will tie him to a tree if he cannot mind himself!’

‘No, it’s not – ’ tried Fíli, but Thorin was gone, the rest of the Company thundering into the trees.

‘It’s not his fault,’ exhaled Fíli, shaking his head, then filled his lungs and turned back to the woods.

^^^

The sun’s rays glinted off motes of dust – troll detritus, set free as they hardened to stone – that mixed with ash of the doused cookfire and wafted through the clearing. After exchanging a few words with Gandalf – something close to a thank you, if not an apology, Fíli thought – and when the grey wizard had escorted Bilbo carefully back to their camp, Thorin turned towards where his nephews were brushing sack fibres out of their hair.

He strode over like he did when his mind had caught at a snarl and intended to disentangle it until it was smoothed to his exact requirements, narrowed and one-pointed. Fíli took one look and his body tensed, ready; Kíli glanced up from his ministrations too late, ‘Uh oh…’

‘I don’t want to see you split up like that, _ever again._ You stay by each other’s sides. Do you _hear_ me?’

The brothers looked at eachother, stunned. Thorin's face was clouded, his anger barely controlled, and he was shaking with rage. _Did he actually lift his fist and clench it?_ Fíli backed up, inadvertently putting one hand up and flinging the other arm across his brother’s chest in a gesture of protection. Nearby, Dwalin folded his hands on his hammer and watched.

‘Foolish does not even begin to describe…’ Words fought themselves for release from Thorin’s throat. ‘Why do you not _think_ before you do anything? Kíli, you cannot have taken three trolls together. Your best course of action was to stay with your brother and come find me.’

Kíli looked at his feet, unable to respond.

‘Do you understand? Speak.’

‘Yes, Uncle,’ he said, low-voiced.

‘You could have been killed. All because of the halfling!’ The last was a gritted shout, cast back over Thorin’s shoulder as if aimed squarely at the burglar.

‘He told them he was alone, Uncle,’ pleaded Kíli suddenly, to Thorin’s visibly heightened irritation. The older dwarf began pacing, stalking the ground in front of them as if to rid himself of his caught fury.

‘Not to mention his talking,’ Fíli cut in, quietly. ‘His distraction saved us.’

‘The wizard saved us,’ snapped Thorin. ‘The hobbit’s inability to stay out of the way put us all in danger of being consumed alive.’

‘No, Uncle, that was us – I mean me. It was me.’

Thorin stared hard at his eldest nephew.

‘You speak for the halfling, is this what I am hearing, Fíli? You are taking responsibility for this?’

‘I sent him to free the ponies. If I had not done that, none of this would have happened.’

‘Exactly. You sent him to steal them back. We brought him in for his skills as a thief, to creep about unseen, did we not? And he did not deliver. What hope do we have of him finding his way about the feet of a dragon,’ he spat, as Fíli’s brows began to furrow. ‘You are the oldest, and I had counted on your sensible nature to both manage your brother and know when not to make excuses for a halfling. Was I wrong?’

Kíli looked from his brother’s darkening face to his Uncle, worry beginning to bloom in his expression. He reached out an assuaging hand.

‘No, Uncle, it’s not Fíli’s fault I – ’

 _‘Was I wrong?’_ Thorin knocked his arm away, his narrowed eyes not leaving Fíli’s face. Kíli was stunned, the hurt falling to his stomach with the hand he dropped by his side. He pressed a little closer into his brother, seeking reassurance while trying to give it.

Thorin’s gaze burned into them both for a moment, before breaking away, a hard sigh escaping him.

‘Thori – ’

‘No. I will hear no more of this. Dwalin!’

‘Aye, Thorin.’

‘From now on, keep an eye on these two as if they were in their third decade. Clearly they do not possess sufficient maturity to make sound decisions in the field.’

The brothers looked mortified as Thorin strode off to find Óin.

Fíli felt unmoored. His uncle’s incandescence was disproportionate. It had been some time since he’d seen the older dwarf as angry, and for it to be directed at himself and his brother in such a way was rare. Thorin was usually one for anger that was controlled or quiet, held close and dangerous in his silence. The reversal was unsettling.

‘Dwalin – ’

Dwalin ground his hammer at the earth. ‘He’s right,’ he only told them gruffly. ‘He’s being hard, but he’s right. Learn from it.’

^^^

Shoulder to shoulder and fingers entwined around the mithril ring, Aulë and Yavanna lay on their stomachs in a meadow, intent on the Spheres. To her, the skin of his arm felt coarse and cool as volcanic stone; to him, her bark pelt was a softened rough, and it rippled as the light from the mithril cascaded across their faces and back into the earth. Aulë was troubled.

~ This didn’t happen last time.

~ What do you mean? Are you not pleased they managed to best the trolls? That was the first trial of the journey, you said.

~ I mean Bilbo drives a hard wedge between Thorin and his kin. Can you not see it?

Yavanna frowned first at him then back to the Company. Thorin was calling them from the campsite to scout some nearby caves. She watched as the dwarves filed past him, and saw that he paused when Bilbo approached, following with hard eyes as the hobbit sidled past, shrinking as he went.

~ I see a leader forgetting his role under the strain of the task at hand. To help your people you must first hold faith. And that goes for you too. Thorin and his kin, _and_ Bilbo. Will you now doubt them all?

~ I doubt everything.

~ Since the first time you tried and failed?

Yavanna said it gently, but it stung Aulë nonetheless. He said nothing in reply, but dipped his head to the grass, allowing a small troop of inch-ants to find their way through his great beard. They appeared diminutive against him, wending about each shimmering strand.

~ Ah. That’s it, isn’t it. Your worry begins and ends with Ilúvatar.

~ If I have mis-stepped I don’t know what will become of them. Maybe Eru will destroy them all anyway, and all this is for nothing.

~ No, Aulë.

Yavanna turned on her back, the glimpse into the Spheres dwindling into nothing as Aulë’s attention followed her. Her hazel eyes sought the clouds that passed in the otherwise perfect cornflower blue sky.

~ As long as they remain this side of the Void, Eru will not forsake them life. I feel it.

She laid her head on the side, meeting his gaze.

~ Remember, you presented Eru with a new idea and it was given life. If you had not done that, the world would look very different. You can do it again.

The Smith appeared more troubled than convinced by her words. The troop of ants left the warm haven of his beard and struck out for the cool grass-forests beyond.

Yavanna paused, looking up again.

~ There is always Olórin.

~ The grey wizard cannot know he is walking between worlds.

~ Doubtless he has felt something change, as the other Valar have.

They fell silent, occupied by the reckoning both knew would eventually come. After a moment Aulë turned to face her, his chin on a wrist and his beard billowing out, graphite cut with rust. He reached out a coal-dark palm.

~ Can I?

She nodded, and he traced a gentle sooty line across the lichen that softened her cheeks. She watched him, her almond eyes deepening. Then she spoke softly.

~ I have only one request for you.

~ Anything. Always.

The Smith leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, marveling at the softness of her full lips, his whiskers grazing at the moss of her temple. She allowed him to nuzzle in, then spoke against his beard.

~ I will not allow him to harm Bilbo. As your dwarves to my Ents. I will not have it, Aulë.

He sighed. The next words he spoke were sharp, but droll.

~ You are compelled by this hobbit.

~ Oh, so you doubt me, too? You said it yourself. Thorin was so close to killing him on the ramparts, and in other Spheres he did so, a thousand times over. And in all of those, Thorin failed, either himself, his kin, or his quest. Here, now, they are already driven further apart, and they have miles to travel yet.

~ Exactly my point. I am as afraid of Thorin’s actions, and I am as fearful I will not be able to sway him from that outcome.

~ Then you admit it is not Bilbo who drives the wedge.

The Smith’s forehead wrinkled obstinately against her own. She wound her fingers through his, then gave a little push so he leaned back, and she could look him seriously in the eye.

~ You must help him see the hobbit’s worth.

~ I am trying! We set his face in Thorin’s dreams, and that of the two striplings. They have had no problems trusting Bilbo.

~ They are not Thorin. And perhaps is not just about seeing the worth of the hobbit.

Aulë grumbled as he nosed her hair that smelled sweetly of grass and earth.

~ Aye, it is about admitting to himself that he sees. You forget the stubbornness of dwarves. 

Yavanna closed her eyes, as her husband touched her forehead with his own. Then she lifted the mithril ring between them.

~ I do not think I do. After all, they so resemble you. But be careful with Thorin, Aulë. Be watchful of Bilbo.

Aulë sighed, and rolled over, and again they linked fingers around the ring.

~ What must they face next? Do you recall?

The Smith’s eyes narrowed.

~ Wargs.

^^^

Luarc was in the south heights tending to the raven’s roosts when the messenger arrived. She liked to do it, although she could ask any stripling to clean for her. It gave her time on her own, away from other dwarrow, and kept her close to her eagle’s eyrie, high in an inaccessible sheer mountain drop close to where a natural gap had been cut away in the rock for the rookery.

The solitude offered her a chance to send her own messages. She had deployed one just now, tied furtive and quick:

_no word yet. hold._

Her thoughts tumbled into low southern cloud in the raven’s wake. And then the other emissary came winging out of the grey.

The messenger circled the heights and entered the roost from the south-west, glossed black-brown marking it as a cliff raven, brown tufts at its legs showing it to be a juvenile. Luarc didn’t know its language, but it was with relief that she remembered cliff ravens flew the western reach of _Khagal’abbad_. She peered close as it made a clumsy landing, squawking a greeting to the other ravens atop their perches, and blinked black eyes at her. Yes, there it was – a message hitched to the leather ring around its left leg, the paper rolled to a tiny scroll, tied with a thread of ocean blue.

Kaegred, then. 

Luarc removed it from the bird, the raven lifting its leg and keeping its wings outstretched for balance. She did not unroll it; it had a leader’s seal on the wax, with a tiny rune of urgency printed above. She fed the raven, then hurried from the heights to the Halls below.

‘Leader?’

Dís blinked tiredly from where she was seated, going through accounts with Geertje. Nírasj stood by the fire in her Blacklock long tunic and billowing pants cinched at the waist, her septum heavy with pale stone.

‘Can it wait until we meet tomorrow, Luarc? It’s just that I – oh!’

Luarc had not waited politely as was her habit, but had strode forward to press the tiny scroll into the others’ palm; when Dís’ eyes had widened in shock she realised her mistake, hurriedly correcting it.

‘Look at the thread, Lady. And the seal. It is from the west, not the east.’

Dís let out a shuddering breath.

‘Every time we get a damn raven.’ She looked up at Luarc apologetically; the lines above her eyes creased a small amount as she tried a smile. ‘They’re not due to send for another week. It unnerves me whenever one comes at a different time.’ She broke the seal with her thumbnail and unrolled it, glancing across the paper curiously before making ready to put it aside for later.

Then she narrowed her eyes, reading closely. Nírasj, seeing her back stiffen, made her way to the table.

‘Who in Arda does he… no.’

Dís rose suddenly, and Luarc stepped back quickly, then made for the entrance.

‘Stay with us, Luarc,’ Dís’ voice cracked out, and the Harad dwarf froze, ‘but please close the door.’

Then she stood, staring, the message wafting in the breeze from the fire.

‘I can’t – ’

‘All right there, Dís?’ Geertje’s round face projected uncertainty as she played with the end of one of her copper braids. Nírasj laid a quick hand on Dís’ shoulder and reached to take the message. It was released easily, Dís’ eyes blanching and her hand remaining curled in front of her as the other gently lifted the creased paper away.

Nírasj stepped away a little, reading carefully in common in her sharp accent. ‘Lord Kaegred of House Firebeard requests the presence of the Lady Dís of the Longbeards. The matter is of a delicate nature concerning the recent betrothal of the scions of my family – what is this, Dís?’

‘Read,’ she replied hollowly.

‘Five moons ago, Leisl and Aévr, _naddun_ Travn, Head Advisor to Lord Troghdin of House Broadbeam, accepted a proposal to be _yasuth_ my heirs Vared and Sjoered. As their father holds permanent office in the Broadbeam low council, yes we know that, yes, yes…’ Nírasj continued silently, chewing at her tattooed bottom lip, skimming for the most critical information.

‘…my head healer has confirmed that the _binashhân_ Leisl has shown all signs that she is bearing, to approximately twenty-four moons…’ Nírasj made a surprised face, looking up from the message.

‘That is strange, I had thought the betrothal to be arranged in the old way, by raven. Leisl and her brother spent far more time in these Halls with…’

Nírasj trailed off, the look of horror dawning on her face outpacing Dís’ ill countenance. The latter sat down again heavily, Geertje’s hand covering her mouth as Nírasj frowned, finding her place and slowly reading on.

‘…their parents, accompanied by Lord Troghdin, will travel from the north forthwith for clarification. In the event that the allegation is confirmed, we will wish to discuss the matters of recompense to both Houses, dissolution of the present betrothal and negotiations of proper arrangements for Leisl and her brother Aévr to formally join with House Longbeard. I request your response to this letter at the earliest convenience.’

The Blacklock remained staring at the paper for a moment, then sought out Dís’ gaze.

‘It doesn’t say which one.’

‘Surely you’d heard the rumours,’ said Dís after a moment, her voice wooden. ‘I may be _only_ their mother and they no longer tell me all things as they did when they were striplings, but these are small Halls and word gets around.’

‘That it could be either?’ said Geertje, wringing her hands. ‘I had heard it too, and – ’

‘Did you? And which of your kin told you that?’

She looked taken aback. ‘My cousin Troghdin doesn’t hold with Travn’s little plays for power, you know that. Travn and his _naddan_ are not my kin,’ she sniffed. ‘You’ll pardon me Dís but there was a time there when I thought they were a good sibling match for your family to produce the next heir in your Line…’ she paused, ‘…given other suitors didn’t get a look in,’ she added pointedly.

Nírasj sent her an irritated glance. ‘Or perhaps it is more probable that neither lad is responsible. Dís, we all know that given the option your oldest prefers _khazdân_ over bearers,’ she appealed.

Dís scowled, ‘Do not use that term here. No _khazdûna_ is expected to bear in these Halls just because they physically are able to, not if I have anything to do with it, whether that sends dwarrowkind to the Halls of Waiting early I do not care – ’

‘Why do you think I followed you to these Halls?’ Nírasj shot back, fixing her with a stare. ‘Me. Olgun. Dori, before he claimed recognition. Many others. You are upset so I will forgive you for striking small words to shards and aiming them at the wrong target.’

Dís looked shaken, but then moved her head slightly in acknowledgement.

‘And I was going to say, not only do we know Fíli’s preference, yet outside of his guild duties I saw Kíli with Ebba far more than Leisl.’

‘That proves nothing,’ cut in Geertje, ‘other suitors. Plural. That boy’s just like Bofur and Bombur when they were that age, and they weren’t young lords in waiting,’ she sat back and crossed her arms over her curved chest.

‘You accuse Kíli, in mine and his mother’s presence?’ Nírasj lifted her chin in defence of the stripling she had welcomed into her guild.

‘I’m just pointing out past behaviour, that’s all. And besides, I don’t believe his brother’s preference is set to stone – ’

 _‘Iktit,’_ said Dís sharply. ‘Enough, you two, I can’t think,’ Dís rubbed her forehead, and it was rueful enough that the others sealed their lips. ‘I will be leaving as soon as we make arrangements.’

The Blacklock shook her head, braids clinking softly with stones. ‘You and who?’

Even with her head feeling stuffed with wool, Dís took one look at her and decided not to argue.

‘Very well. _We._ Can you leave the little ones for a few days, Geertje?’

‘Aye, I can leave Tjefur and the twins with their olders, the fidgets will all be fine with Gefur and Beertje at the helm, those two are sensible, thank Mahal. Bombfur will be there when he’s not at the miner’s guild. I’ll ask Sigun to look in on them each day.’

‘We’ll take Ebba and Jyri,’ said Nírasj. ‘No, do not counter me. We will leave Hulfi and the elder guards here to keep safe, if Edri is acting as first.’

‘Ebba will not like this,’ Geertje warned.

‘Ebba need only guard,’ said Dís, her irritation spiking again.

‘You’re leaving a Broadbeam in charge, who makes no secret of his alliance with Aoifdern. A _Fantnuhbu_ and an _‘Urstarg,_ ’ Nírasj pointed out flatly. ‘Do you think that wise?’

‘Ulvi will be here.’

‘Dís – ’

‘Mahal’s great beard, my boys.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘Why this, why now?’

‘You should not presume anything,’ reminded Nírasj, as gently as she was able.

‘I will plan for what may come!’ cried Dís. ‘What if there is a child, Nírasj? What if it belongs to one of my sons? What if – what if something happens to _them?’_

‘You know it,’ said Nírasj quietly and reluctantly. ‘In the old ways, the child becomes the first of the elder line of Durin.’

The implication sank heavy around them. Geertje shook her great copper braids dumbly.

‘No-one is to know of this,’ said Dís roughly. ‘No-one outside of this room. Not even the council. As far as we are concerned, we will be visiting with Kaegred’s halls and taking – ’ she sought blindly – ‘Luarc.’

She focused in on where the Harad dwarf had been standing, silent and watchful, at the end of the room.

‘Luarc,’ she said in a strange, tight voice, ‘Have you yet had the chance to tour the western Ered Luin?’

^^^

Later, Luarc climbed her way back up to the rookery heights to convey Dís’ return message. After sending Kaegred’s raven back west – the young bird crawking as she put it out into air, winging out of sight behind Thorin’s Halls towards the sea – she paused, then quickly bent and wrote a note of her own. It was done by making knots in a single piece of goat’s wool spun into thread, the size of each tie carrying as much meaning as the spaces between.

 _it changes,_ the string message said.

_there may be a child. instruction will come._

She twined the string into a coil, then pushed it into the small tube on the raven’s leg. Then, whispering the way, she tapped out the code for good measure and the raven answered with a long rasping call. Stroking its head, she murmured her thanks, then opened her hands and arms to the wind, pointed south.

She watched it until it disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neo-Khuzdul:  
> Kakhf: shit  
> Nadadith: younger brother  
> Khagal’abbad: The Blue Mountains  
> Naddun: children of  
> Naddan: children  
> Yasuth: spouses of, pl  
> Binashhân: unmarried  
> Khazdân: male dwarves, pl  
> Khazdûna: female dwarf  
> Fantnuhbu: Broadbeam  
> ‘Urstarg: Firebeard  
> Itkit: silence (imperative)
> 
> Note on dwarf gestation: Dwarrow Scholar has it at approximately 48 months. Makes sense given their density and life expectancy. That suits this fic, so I’m going with it. HC has that pregnant dwarves don’t show until the third year.
> 
> Note on poly dwarves: there’s heaps of ‘One’ fics so I wanted to explore other kinds of ships in this AU. Polyandry etc and the fraternal version of it is a thing in human cultures for various reasons that also make sense for dwarrow – and ‘we-look-different-because-different-fathers’ is canon to PJ dwarves, so why not? My HC goes further and has sibling sets marrying sibling sets for the purpose of keeping tight family economies & and sharing the raising of children; different kinds of love happen in these units, and some partners may remain ace or aro.
> 
> OC’s intro’d in this chapter:  
> Leisl, twin sister of Aévr, the children of Travn. Broadbeams.  
> Vared and Sjoered: sons of Lord Kaegred. Firebeards.  
> Sigun, wife of Gloín, mother of Gimli. Sister to Olgun. Olgun and Oín were wed as part of the same marriage alongside Gloín and Sigun, but are ace/aro. Longbeards.  
> Beertje, oldest daughter to Geertje, Bofur and Bombur, aged 54. She is one of three triplets along with her brothers Gefur and Bombfur. Broadbeams. (I think the name Bombfur has been used in the fandom before for one of Bombur’s sons, can’t recall which fic/s, acknowledgement to the OGs). Broadbeams.  
> Tjefur, youngest son of Geertje, Bofur and Bombur, aged 7 so still a toddler as far as dwarrow are concerned. Broadbeam.


	10. Rivendell's Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which elves on athelas can Smell, in which no dwarves would be tossed in the acrobatic sense for another 60 years, but a hobbit definitely was, and in which Grey Estë’s true nature is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know that the journey time is stretchy comparing book and filmverse; I think they rest in Rivendell for at least a couple of weeks before moving on. Also I’ve messed with the film order of Rivendell events.

Bilbo gazed up at the summer light filtering through Rivendell’s sculpted tiers, the residual adrenalin in his veins simmering down to calm, his mood buoyed by the music of the water falling all around and burbling happily on stone below. He stretched, smiling as the light suffused around him, and filled his lungs with sweet, clean air. It tasted of spray from the purest mountain spring, clarified with pine.

_I’m here. I made it. This is actual Rivendell._

He strolled, absorbing the sights, enjoying the softness that settled about his shoulders with the late afternoon sun.

^^^

He passed by two tall elves descending stairs from the great library. One was wrinkling his nose, the curious sight of that flawless skin in such a viscerally expressive gesture startling Bilbo. When they thought he was beyond earshot, one of them spoke in common.

‘I can _smell_ them. It hurts my nose.’

 _Do they mean me?_ thought Bilbo, sniffing surreptitiously at his shirt. He made a wide, innocent circle, and stepped behind a pillar from which he could watch the two float on down the corridor, their robes billowing behind them.

‘You were in the healing rooms,’ his companion told him. ‘The athelas is still with you. I have barely a whiff… for you it must be a torrent.’ The elf leaned towards the first, attentive. ‘What do they smell like?’ he inquired.

The other coughed delicately into a sleeve. ‘Unwashed, of course. I dare say they haven’t bathed in anything but a muddy stream in a week or more. But also…’

They shut their mouths abruptly as Thorin appeared from around a bend in the walkway, broad as they were tall. He passed them by, unconcerned, hands tucked behind him. He gave them the briefest incline of the head, barely raising his eyeline, but did not slow and instead continued on at a steady pace to where Bilbo was hiding.

‘That one, for example,’ Bilbo could just hear the first elf’s voice as they disappeared around the bend from where Thorin had stepped. ‘That one has bathed with elven soap, but still gives off an aura of sandalwood, labdanum resin, blood, and iron. It is quite overwhelming.’

‘Sandalwood?’ began the second elf, sounding offended now. ‘They say he’s the ki – ’ then they were out of Bilbo’s earshot.

There was nowhere to go without looking foolish. So the hobbit just stepped out from behind the pillar, trying his best to appear casual even as heat warmed his ears.

The dwarf looked down at him, his mouth in a straight line. A braid lay damp on his collarbone, Bilbo noticed distractedly. He put his thumbs into his pockets and patted the front of his weskit, the nerves that had wrung hard during the morning’s events still playing through his fingers. He still felt deeply embarrassed about the race away from the wargs, and what had happened when it had become obvious he couldn’t keep up.

^

_Nori burst into sight above the grotto, face plastered to Sharul’s neck, an outstretched arm holding Gandalf’s horse by a rein, several ponies crowding behind. He’d been in the clearing clipping the last of the ponies with Bifur and his little brother, filling the troll’s sacks with valuable pony hair to sell to a village in exchange for a raven messenger, when they’d first heard the howls._

_Ori appeared beside him on Bungo, Bifur on Ruby, the rest of the herd nosing in._

_‘We couldn’t pack everything up. We only had time to get the ponies before they bolted! Come on!’_

_Thorin wasted no time wiping his blade on the dead warg scout but hauled himself up the bank, jerking his chin hard in Nori’s direction._

_‘Move. Get up there. Ride!’_

^

_They’d clambered up and leapt for their ponies; Bilbo couldn’t see Myrtle in the cacophony of scrambling, heaving dwarves, casting about to find her among hooves and flying manes, the howls sounding closer. He felt a hand twist at his collar; lurching and gagging, he craned around and found himself looking straight into Kíli’s wide and urgent brown eyes._

_‘C’mon, Bilbo! No time!’ The dark-haired dwarf dragged him onto Falr’s withers, wrapped an arm around Bilbo’s chest and held him tightly in place._

_‘But Myrtle – ’_

_‘She’ll follow! Let’s go!’_

_Kíli kicked the mare who wheeled, turning, then sent herself flying at the hooves of the others; Fíli careened Misty around to race his brother shoulder to shoulder. Bilbo was as good as picked up off the pony’s back and squeezed one-handed by the dwarf, who let his weight fall heavy to his legs while balancing bareback, leaning determinedly forward. There was no way the hobbit could turn to check if Myrtle and the other packponies kept pace._

_The wargs snapped at the heels of that other strange wizard who slipped away with his rabbit-sled in the opposite direction once they’d made it through the cover of some trees; he went one way with the orc-pack close behind, and they went another, and then suddenly they’d emerged into a great expanse of high hilled country, dotted with sparse tors and no hiding places for ponies. Behind them, other wargs filled the air with their wild, keening threat. They could not turn around, and it was a short matter of time before the orcs realised where they were, and ran them down._

_Nori urged Sharul ahead and thundered past the group to Thorin and Anshat, Dwalin on Battleaxe and Gandalf on his horse behind them._

_‘We need to dismount,’ shouted Nori over hooves and wind. Thorin, bent over Anshat’s streaming mane, sent him an unreadable glare._

_‘You’re joking,’ yelled Dwalin with effort, giving Sutulfalad her full racing head. ‘What is wrong with you?’_

_Nori shook his head fiercely. ‘They’re too fast, we’re too heavy, we’re holding the ponies back. They’re goin’ to catch us anyway.’ He indicated the line of wargs appearing and disappearing between tors to their right, tumbling their way after Radagast, the other howls rising behind. They had perhaps a few breaths of grace, no more._

_‘We can hide!’_

_‘They can scent us, for Durin’s sake!’_

_‘And we can fight. Let the ponies do what they do!’ Nori flung a vehement hand at his pony’s flattened ears, her straining neck._

_Gandalf moved his horse closer to Thorin and pointed his staff to at a slight dip in the undulating landscape, partly hidden by a tor mound._

_‘Nori is right. Take cover!’_

_Thorin growled, and nodded once, and Anshat’s nose stretched out underneath him for the last time._

^

_Dwarves swung off their mounts behind the sparse cover of the granite columns, boots slamming to the earth, looking quizzically to Thorin._

_‘Lad, what are you doi – ’_

_‘Turn them loose.’_

_The packponies arrived, sweat shining on Myrtle’s recently shorn flank. Bilbo fought himself clear of Kíli and ran to her, petting and fussing as she wheezed._

_‘Uncle, no!’ cried Kíli, throwing an arm around Falr’s neck; beside him Fíli leaned to Misty’s shoulder in alarm._

_‘I’m sorry? Let the ponies go?’ Bilbo was agape. ‘Are you mad?’_

_‘Turn them loose, I said. A distraction.’ Thorin looked briefly to Nori as if for support, then grabbing Anshat’s head with both hands he turned her, facing her back where they’d come from, pointed right towards the howls of the other approaching pack of beasts. He walked her a few steps, bent his head close to her trembling ear and whispered, ‘Anshat. Run fast.’ And then he brought his broad dwarf hand down hard on her croup. She reared, and struck out at the air, and then she was off._

_‘Go, now,’ Gandalf sent the horse flying after her, and then they were all moving, clamouring, an explosion of hooves sending sods of dirt flying. At the treeline in the near distance, the other orc pack emerged; Anshat took one look and the herd wheeled sharply north, the warg pack giving chase, and then both disappeared from view._

_The dwarves and Bilbo stared._

_‘Why did you do that?’ the hobbit demanded, incredulous, of the dwarf leader. Thorin only favoured him with a cool look, striding to the tor edge where Dwalin and Gandalf were peering._

_Nori patted him on the arm. ‘For their own good, and ours.’_

_‘For their – Are all dwarves mad?’ he sputtered. His blood was still racing; dimly he turned around to where the dwarves and the wizard clustered around the rock._

_'They,’ he stated baldly, brandishing an imperious finger behind him, ‘will be eaten, and I,’ he pointed toward his own chin, ‘won’t be able to keep up – ’_

_There was a screaming neigh somewhere to the north. Bilbo whipped his head to both directions, his heart thudding an axefall in his chest, just as Gandalf abruptly stood._

_‘Radagast has turned the others away from us. Run!’_

^

_‘Run!’_

_Bilbo took off in a disoriented panic, imagining slavering fangs and stinking, bristling fur leaping out at him from behind every granite clump they dodged. Even as his legs pumped and his breath hammered in his lungs, he noticed that on their own two feet the dwarves worked just like they had with the trolls, as a functioning assemblage of units that suddenly and without effort or thought locked together in synchronised tandem, as wheels to axles, pivoting and rotating, several limbs of one mind. He, however, soon fell behind, one pace for him being three quarters of even Ori’s stride; seeing him struggle, Kíli slowed and ducked out of his peripheral vision, the young dwarf steadily keeping close guard behind. He stumbled and fell, the distance between himself and the lead sprinters stretched, and from somewhere to his rear Kíli yelled something in Khuzdul:_

_‘Imrikhí!’_

_With only a couple of glances from those in front, all at once and without breaking stride they’d formed a loose circle around the hobbit, Thorin and Dwalin at their head, the rest keeping pace in a ragged barrier. At their centre Bilbo put his head down and ran, and ran, fixed in blind terror at_ _Thorin’s heels._

_They’d made it to a second tor against which they hid, a warg snuffling above their heads, and Bilbo was leaning on his knees, dry-retching at his ankles, a sleeve stuffed in his mouth for silence; Kíli stepped out and with his arrows brought them crashing down, beast and rider finished off at Bilbo’s feet by three dwarves. Then they were off again, Bilbo the hub of the wheel, but again falling further and further back from Thorin –_

_‘Can you not hurry him, Gandalf?’ bellowed Thorin, cutting a line of unfathomable azure straight to the hobbit through dwarves pounding into the ground, the yelps and whoops of the hunters arcing closer each time they rounded another stack of boulders. The wizard slowed to worriedly urge Bilbo on, the rest of the Company streaking past them._

_‘This way!’_

_Bilbo was winded, clutching his side, hobbling as much as racing now, his breathing dragging and painful in his throat, his lungs straining and bruised._

_‘Bilbo, keep going!’_

_‘I – can’t – ’_

_Kíli_ _did not so much put out a supportive hand as shove him desperately forward; up ahead, Thorin whipped furiously around and growled something harsh. Kíli grunted in reply and all of a sudden Bilbo felt a yank back at his waist, then pressure about his hips, and he was airborne –_

_‘Dori!’_

_‘Yes yes, I have him,’ huffed Dori, and Bilbo was winded, snatched from the sky by large hands and bodily hoisted over the rounded shoulder of the silver coiffed dwarf, with whom he’d barely exchanged a single kind word beyond a guarded offer or two of herbal tea, and now here he was, slung over Dori’s back, clutching to his belt as the dwarf chuddered forward. He barely had time to raise voice at the jarring grip on the backs of his knees, when –_

_‘Dwalin!’_

_‘Please – ’_

_‘Aye!’ The formation changed, and a line now snaked its way between tors to keep unseen, and Bilbo was winded anew when Dori lifted him from his shoulders and threw him to be smacked hard into an enormous chest; Bilbo rolled, stunned, finding himself flipped sideways and shucked across Dwalin’s hipbone, caught in the crook of a huge sweaty forearm, his head thumping with each broad stride. He swung one way then the other as the dwarf shifted his footing to meet uneven ground far more elegantly than Bilbo would have imagined, then –_

_‘Thorin!’_

_Bilbo was all out of protest as one final time he sailed through the air. Two arms received him smoothly, pulling him in with the momentum of his flight, and immediately clasped him close, chest to chest, legs around thick waist, arms about strong neck, carried embarrassingly child-like. The hobbit had no time to kvetch, and no presence of mind to do so; he was hugging into Thorin, his sweating curls clamped to Thorin’s furs, his cheek and panicked lips flush against the bristled skin of the dwarf’s throat, that short beard scratching at his forehead. There was the salt smell of sweat – Thorin’s and his own – and his own muscles pulled and strung thin, and yet he clung to the dwarf for all he could feel and hear was Thorin’s lungs heaving with effort, the schick and whirr of Thorin re-drawing and brandishing his sword, careful to move Bilbo aside to do so, the hard iron of the arm that remained curled around his back, the whisper of his leathers and thumping gait as they ran. And then all that stopped, and they were surrounded, and amid shouts and warg-growls he was being bowled gently along the ground in such a way as he went rolling past Gandalf and suddenly down the mouth of a narrow granite chasm._

_Even gasping, laying damp, bereft and terrified but strangely exultant, on his back at the bottom of the hidden cavern with dwarves hurtling over his body one by one, even then, he could still smell the sweat mixed with something else, a scent specific to Thorin only, a sharp, deep, natural resin._

^

He stared upward at Thorin now, memories blooming hot as the blood in his cheeks. His throat was suddenly dry.

For his part, the dwarf looked down at him with a strange expression, the slightest corrugation visible between his brows, a tightness to his eyes betraying – what? Vexation? Disgust? _Pity?_

Surely, not concern. Or even – Bilbo’s own brows drew together in stupefaction.

Was – was Thorin _chastened?_

Bilbo banished the thought.

‘Where did – where did they put the ponies?’ he croaked shakily.

For the elven warriors had returned to Imladris with more than just orc blades. Any persistent rumbling from the Company at Elrond’s perceived slight had been silenced when the second cavalry trotted sixteen ponies and one horse across the low bridge, all frothy, worse for wear, yet nickering, snorting, and very much alive. Kíli had sang out Falr’s name with joy, and even Thorin’s face betrayed the tiniest turn of his lips, until he’d seen Elrond’s own knowing smile. Then he’d fast snapped back to his accustomed glower.

‘Their farriers are looking them over.’ Thorin’s tone articulated exactly what he thought of their skill. ‘It seems your packpony lost a shoe kicking a warg,’ he added wryly, taking in the distress and then relief passing across the hobbit’s face. ‘Anshat and Glóin’s geld had blood on their mouths.’ He noticed Bilbo turn a little green. ‘They used their teeth,’ he explained, as if that made it any better. ‘None of the ponies appear damaged.’

‘Oh. Well. That’s good, then,’ said Bilbo faintly. Exhaustion began to overtake the intensity of the last few hours. He swayed a little on his feet.

‘The others go to bathe in the fountain,’ murmured Thorin then, and Bilbo couldn’t tell if he was making a wry reference to the two elves and their gossip, or just commenting apropos of nothing.

Then he coloured deeply. What if he himself smelled so ripe that Thorin was making an unsubtle suggestion? He had been close enough to Bilbo at the warg-attack to judge such things about the hobbit – more than close – and he was near enough now.

_How do I reply to that?_

He settled for a small, forced laugh, and it sounded terribly awkward and out of place.

Thorin just looked at him.

‘Gandalf and I were offered the use of Elrond’s private bathing quarters. You may also make use of them if you wish.’ He gestured back the way he’d walked. ‘I am sure an elf will give you directions.’

‘Ah, thank you. I – thank you.’ Still lightly reddened, Bilbo turned and hurried away, in the direction Thorin indicated.

^^^

Ori smoothed his knitted cowl nervously. Mahal, he needed to bathe properly, his sensitive skin had had enough of ash and water, but this wasn’t a friendly little brook. For one, there was nowhere for a shy dwarf to conceal themselves while they washed, no convenient slab of rock or crop of rushes he could hide behind. For two, this was an elvenhome, and it made Ori extra nervy to think of those strange, slender beings with their mostly impassive, weirdly naked jaws gliding around and getting a good look at his dwarven underthings. And last, to be honest, Ori preferred to sit at the edges and observe. It was his place of comfort as well as his chosen craft – to see and describe for the annals of the ages – but today was different; this was the first time since the company had set out in which they had time to rest and for a moment feel fully released of the thought of what awaited them at the end of their journey. Ori had been surprised to see the entire Company mixing in the way they currently were, with a feeling of camaraderie, indeed even brotherhood, that went beyond the personal and family boundaries that had laid bare and sharpened in the first part of their journey from the Ered Luin. Thorin was the exception, of course, but that was no surprise. And the burglar was also absent, likely by Gandalf’s side.

Perhaps it was because they were here in Imladris. There were too many elves by far, and dwarves in such a place felt a surety in banding together.

Or, he considered, perhaps it was the ebbing aftermath of the adrenalin-fuelled experience of fighting a real threat together for the first time, when in the troll clearing he, Ori, had proven something to himself, his brothers, and the rest, and – he flushed with warmth at the memory – even Thorin had called his slingshot a ‘welcome weapon given the circumstances.’ Ori smiled softly as he recalled the moment when their leader had stopped by, Dwalin close behind him, as Óin checked Nori over with his brothers fussing by his side.

_‘Any injury we should know about?’ Thorin had enquired, his gaze ranging across the brothers._

_‘No. Nori took a hard fall, but I can find no evidence of cracked ribs or bleeding under the skin. He is bruised, but he will be well.’_

_‘You should have seen the loop he made in the air!’ Dori had exclaimed; Nori made a rueful face, pulling away from the healer’s hands._

_‘I saw it. Good dwarf,’ grunted Dwalin unexpectedly, giving Nori the first direct nod since they’d left Hobbiton. ‘Hardy as they come.’_

_‘That thing would’ve ripped my head off if not for this one here,’ said Nori smoothly, reddening visibly and attempting to redirect attention away from any show of shock at Dwalin’s concession by drawing his little brother in to knuckle him._

_‘Indeed,’ Thorin said quietly, and his approval was implicit. ‘Gandalf thinks there’s a troll hoard. With me, Nori.’_

Dori had immediately puffed up with a pride bordering on vanity, and Nori, scowling deeply in a display that masked a worrying combination of gratification and actual interest, had nothing else to do but up and follow Thorin.

And then, Ori thought, his lungs seizing and breath coming short at the memory of the recent trauma, there had been the forced rush through the tors after the loss of the ponies, screaming through thistle and grass and dodging granite outcrops behind the others when the first orc-driven warg pack he’d ever laid eyes on had loomed and snapped at their heels like nightmares…

_‘Ori, no! Get back!’ Thorin – Thorin Oakenshield! – had yanked he, Ori, back out of sight of their enemy, and then he’d turned and run faster than he’d ever done in his young life…_

He’d almost passed out with dread when that warg and orc rider had snarled on the tor above them, before Thorin had nodded instruction to his nephew; Ori had gaped with fear as Kíli had exhaled one hard breath, staring straight ahead as he drew an arrow, then in two smooth steps he’d turned and delivered a maiming shot to both orc and mount, leaving the kill to Dwalin, Thorin and Bifur.

Ori made a mental note to jot this down in his journeybook later.

And, well. The other thing was –

The realisation made him blink. The other thing was that after they’d been reunited with the ponies they thought lost – he had been overwhelmed with happiness to see Bungo again, and Dori had blessedly left off coddling his younger brother in favour of his mare for a full hour – Ori had spent most of the afternoon laughing, for the first time in days, if not weeks. And so had the rest of the dwarves, a lightness and heightening of spirit drawing them closer together, as only shared hardship, successfully and collectively overcome, could do.

No matter why and how, it was strange to think they could be so carefree here, right in the middle of an elevenhome. Ori wouldn’t dare tell Dori, but he thought he might sneak aside tomorrow to speak to that Lindir, see if he might be allowed to visit the library.

_Maybe the hobbit would like to come along…_

‘You getting in? Might as well use the facilities. Who knows when we get to bathe properly again.’

‘Don’t hurry me, Nori,’ snipped Ori without rancour, unknowingly imitating their eldest’s usual tone and waving him away fastidiously while unfastening his trousers.

‘Up to you,’ his brother replied easily, shrugging and toeing a towel. His brother was cagey around water, Mahal knew the kid hadn’t yet learned to swim.

Like the others, Nori had divested himself of boots and all. He stood, legs apart and arms crossed, scratching idly at the lines of ash scars that decorated his arm and chest on the left side, just visible under his pelt, enjoying the way the breeze wafted into crevices that in his opinion had not seen enough of the world of late. His grin expanded to amusement at the sight of the enormous ox-chested Dwalin – who had been among the first to dismiss his own undergarments – with Bifur and Bofur wobbling vertically and precariously atop shoulders, trying to knock over Glóin who had Óin and Dori perched similarly. Hoots and whoops followed by splashes announced Kíli and Fíli’s trajectory at speed into the great upper bowl of the elf fountain, while Balin leaned back in his calm little plunging pool and tutted at Bombur steadying himself on the ledge directly above.

‘Bombur son of Boldur, mind where you step, I swear by the length of my beard – ’

There was an almighty splash and a wave of water cascaded over Balin, just as Bofur managed to unsteady Dori and topple their little dwarven tower into the shallow pool, Dwalin roaring in victory and Bofur punching both fists into the air.

‘Come on, Ori!’ yelled a drenched Kíli, hanging half off the lip of the bowl. Fíli surfaced beside him, wet strands flopping a dark gold curtain over his eyes, mouth gasping between his moustache-braids.

‘Ow!’ Ori whined and danced to one side, glaring at his brother who whipped the towel back, turning away and doubling over with laughter while presenting Ori with the unsightly rear view of Nori’s furred stones vibrating with mirth between his thighs.

‘Oh, oh no. I can’t unsee that.’

‘Not for you, sprocket,’ grinned Nori from between his legs, waving cheerily in Ori’s direction.

Ori swivelled.

‘Oh.’

The two elves on the nearby bridge were a tableau of dramatic indignation, eyes wide, one covering their mouth, the other clearly paused in a near-swoon. A flute dropped and rolled from a hand, and a second later, could be heard sploshing into the merrily burbling river below.

‘Thank Mahal for that. I can’t stand elvish music,’ grunted Nori. He righted himself then swaggered over to the fountain, hopping into the water with satisfaction.

Above them, seeing everything, Kíli and Fíli exploded into laughter.

^^^

Falr was fine, Kíli had been relieved to discover when he and his brother had found their way to the elven stables at first light, hurrying from the guest quarters the elves had given them – all long, high beds and balustrades laced with that curved and flowing aesthetic the elves seemed so fond of. Most of the Company had elected to pull away the velvet bedspreads and cushions in favour of making right-sized nests on the floors. There, they’d slept the near-dreamless sleep of exhaustion, but most had woken early at the light rippling easily in through the open-air windows on sounds of waterfalls and birdsong, startling at the utterly alien environment preferred by these aboveground creatures of wood and air.

In truth, Kíli was as impatient to be up and about the elves as check his mare’s health. Fíli followed closely behind to keep track of his brother – his own impulse, not at all following Thorin’s directive – for the moment needing to be far from wherever his Uncle might appear.

They found their way by following their ears and noses, elves floating gracefully around them as they stumped along. For the first time since that Dunland firemoon Kíli was very aware of the stark differences between elvenkind and his kin.

‘Do you feel small? Next to them, I mean,’ he whispered sidelong to Fíli.

They’d passed by another elf in flowing robes and a circlet, who briefly looked down their smooth, high cheekbones at the two dwarves. A willowy, weightless, impossibly thin-limbed and long-legged being, such that Kíli wondered how it was they enchanted gravity to allow them to move so smoothly on the surface of the earth without somehow floating off into clouds. That prompted him to ponder what dwarrow must look like, seen through an elf's eyes. He glanced aside at his brother, squinting to imagine how Fíli might appear. He supposed that Fíli could seem broad and thick-limbed, short of leg and square of torso, his forehead dense, his nose and cheeks strong, his round, open ears a curious rarity, his hands huge, his gait heavy. Kíli wondered too, what an elf might make of Fíli’s sun-gold and braided facial hair; he had never seen an elf with anything remotely like a beard. And Fíli was the handsome one, thought Kíli. Confident and assured, quick with humour and skilled in his hands, his braids the type that sat well on his features and rarely needed fixing. He was sure even the elves would agree.

And how might they see himself, he wondered. Maybe they’d find him appealing, in that he was already taller than the average dwarf nearing full adulthood, and more slender than most. An ‘acquired taste’, he’d once overheard Geertje say to his amad, and it had been obvious who she was talking about. It had always made him feel a little anxious of what other dwarrow thought of him, let alone any other race. Maybe they’d think him too hairy by half, archer’s shear notwithstanding. Amad always told him he’d look neater if he grew his beard out for a tight braiding or clasp once he’d come of age. _Maybe I should._ But then, it’d still get in the way of his craft. _Ebba would understand._

Another elf glided towards them along the fluted corridor, and Kíli’s head craned. _Mahal._ His own forehead would be level with that one’s breasts, and their curve was unmistakable, accentuated out of the slenderness of the elven body, an effect that dwarven women only achieved if they cinched the waist of their long gowns hard with an open neckline in a style that Kíli had only seen worn by a few older Longbeard _khazdâna_ raised in Erebor. His own mother preferred narrow worker’s trousers and a smith’s vest over tunic to just below the knee, sunk down to the ankle and trimmed with finery if she had to bear more conservative visitors from other Halls.

The elf wafted past. He stared.

‘Close your jaw, brother,’ Fíli suggested lowly. He had a fixed smile on his face, the sort that didn’t touch the eyes and only hinted at dimples, the kind that Kíli had only seen on his brother’s face at official engagements in the Ered Luin.

‘Do you though? Feel small, being here?’

‘No.’ The word was delivered with finality. ‘They, on the other hand, are unreasonably longshanked. How do they not topple like a tree every time they walk out in the open?’

‘Right,’ said Kíli slowly, turning as he walked to follow the elf with his eyes. ‘Just what I was thinking.’

They’d found the stables easily. Impossibly tall stalls loomed on either side of them, and enormous horse noses appeared over the top, curiously marking the two figures as they made their way to where the ponies had been fed and watered.

‘Falr!’

^

They stayed in the stables for most of the morning. It had not taken long to check over Falr and Malasul, and both ponies seemed fairly unaffected by the events of the previous day apart from dozing frequently, when alert inhaling the lucerne the elves had provided as feed. The two brothers took their time, first thoroughly scrubbing and grooming dry the ponies’ shorn bodies, washing a deep layer of dust from manes and tails, then brushing them clean. It was a pleasure to do nothing but stay in the one place and simply care for their animals, and they used the indulgence as an excuse to loiter unobtrusively in the stall and watch the elven stablehands drift lissom about their business.

Kíli was unusually quiet, braiding Malasul’s silver-gold mane after finishing Falr’s, the ponies whuffling and grinding their hay contentedly in their presence.

‘Here, now,’ he told the dapple-grey geld. ‘I’ll give you a braid that tells all your suitors to leave you alone, because you’ve chosen to live for your craft.’

Kíli felt his brother’s eyes on him.

‘What?’ he said, not looking up from the hooked double fishtail.

‘What, yourself. Does something weigh on your mind?’

‘No more than anything on yours,’ retorted Kíli a bit bluntly.

‘Peace, Kíli. I’m just concerned.’ Fíli leaned back in his seat against the stable wall. His blonde hair canvassed the pale rose-gold of sanded wood designs decorating the pony-stall, knots and coils without angle telling of the circles and flows of elven sensibilities. He waited a moment before continuing, Kíli busying himself with his fingers but otherwise giving no sign that he was closed to further pressing.

‘Were they your first orcs?’

‘And wargs,’ Kíli replied, the words falling from his mouth as he shuddered. ‘That thing stank worse than goblins. I didn’t know orcs bled black as well. I didn’t know they were so _big._ ’

‘You were brave. And your shots were true. Thorin was proud of you,’ added Fíli, the tiniest catch in his voice.

Kíli coloured. ‘Told you arrows are better’n knives,’ he mumbled into the gelding’s mane.

‘They’ll give you an epithet,’ Fíli kept his tone light. ‘Kíli Orcbane. Kíli Keenarrow. Right between the eyes.’ Fíli mimed pulling his own draw and loosing an arrow high. ‘Kíli One-shot,’ he grinned, hoping for levity. His brother kept on with the braiding, giving up only a small smile.

‘Are you alright?’

Kíli met his gaze then, his eyes suddenly bright, Malasul’s mane twisted in his fingers. Fíli looked at him properly; his brother’s hair was as messed as ever, kept in check only by that silver filigreed bead, his full mouth turned downwards at the corners, the boyish sparkle nowhere to be seen.

‘You’re thinking of our _addad._ ’ 

Kíli stared up at the rounded stable ceiling, trying to find his words, gripped by an urgency his brother’s empathy had set in train.

‘I've killed a goblin before. So have you. Orcs are the same, this is no different to goblins. It isn’t different.’ Kíli frowned deeply. ‘It isn’t.’

Fíli said nothing but passed him a long look of tired understanding.

‘I just wish they were here,’ admitted Kíli suddenly, and sadly.

‘Would that they were. Thorin might finally leave off the scolding.’ It was darkly said, but his brother laughed, and Fíli found himself chuckling lightly. The two of them sat there for a while, their shared mirth going some way to lightening the weight in their chests.

‘I didn’t dream of any elves last night,’ announced Kili after a time. Fíli let it alone, the change of subject definitive.

‘Oh? Had enough now you’re surrounded by them?’ he joked, his dimples returned in full. ‘Plenty of elf maids here, if that’s what you’re looking for.’

‘Yes, well. No, I mean,’ he ducked his head again. ‘I dreamed of Ebba.’

‘Ah,’ said Fíli. He didn’t press the point.

‘We were riding the goats up the high pass west to Kaegred’s Halls, and it was dire. I mean we were really racing. She was always just ahead of me, she had her bow drawn and was chasing something I couldn’t see. I tried to catch her, and I kept falling behind,’ recounted Kíli in a softened voice, a tone his brother rarely heard from him. ‘I lost her in my dream.’ He tried to smile again. 'Was probably just a nightmare about what happened yesterday.'

‘No surprise she’s there in your mind. She’s your shield-sister after all. You’ve known her since we were barely stripling from fidget.’

‘I miss her,’ Kíli said suddenly, fiercely. He looked at his right hand, running his thumb over the hard calluses on his drawing fingers. ‘Do you miss Aévr?’

‘We’re missing them all. Mahal. I miss Jyri most, I have to say.’ The golden haired dwarf put his hands behind his head; the thought of his shield-brother made him grin. ‘Jyri makes everyone laugh, even Thorin. He keeps things cut straight and even. He would’ve been right there with your _imn’adad_ finishing off that warg and singing while he did it.’ He stretched his elbows and torso, sighing deeply. ‘And of course I miss Aévr. If he were here, I guarantee you he’d be over there in that elven library with Ori and Bilbo. The rest, he’d hate, but it’d never cross his face,’ he chuckled in fondness, and no small touch of longing.

The stall gate clattered and the two of them looked up, Malasul and Falr facing their ears forward in interest.

‘You two. Wonderin’ where you went.’ A pointed head appeared, dwarven arms hooking over the top and pulling the rest of the body up; it was Nori. A few of the Company had arrived at the stables to give attention to their own mounts.

‘Elves got a raven roost. Gonna send one west. Anything you want to say to your amad?’

^^^

~ Did he just say what I thought he did?

Yavanna bit her lip, carefully assessing her husband.

~ The little archer didn’t dream of the elf Captain.

She spread her hands, not knowing what else to say. If it was so…

Aulë’s eyes widened in sudden panic.

~ Drench it all. Why are the dreams changing? Where did she _go?_

^^^

Their second dinner in Rivendell was far more relaxed. They’d been given exclusive run of Rivendell’s guest quarters, they’d bathed twice and cleaned up after the first night’s feast in exchange for procuring eggs, cheese and meat, and they’d rested and taken time to care for ponies and blades. They felt refreshed, and even the elder Longbeards eyed their elven hosts with a small and begrudgingly given degree of unfurling trust.

Tonight, to Lindir’s dismay, dwarrow were getting firmly stuck into elvish wine. Dwalin had downed the equivalent of a carafe already and his belligerence was rising.

‘That’s not an elf maid…’ Dwalin challenged, staring an axe at Kíli, who stilled, the recent show of youthful swagger wilting into excruciating self-consciousness.

For a moment the tables quietened, the only sound the fey twang of that elven harp. Fíli lowered his fork in disbelief and consternation.

Then Dwalin winked.

‘Aye,’ the older dwarf followed, ‘and I’ve known more comely _khazdân_ in my time. Give that elf over there a fine full beard and cut him off at the knees, I _might_ consider him, soft silken chest and all, but lad…’ Dwalin grinned confidingly, wobbling his full glass dangerously over the table, ‘your brother has the right of it. Choose a ram over a dam, you won’t regret it…’

Kíli sank low in his seat in humiliation as his brother shook his head and the Company brayed and cackled with crude glee, except those sitting at the high table; Thorin frowned at his shield-brother’s behaviour and turned back to conversing with Gandalf and Balin, the latter's lips thinned in a disapproving glare.

‘What do I care if you want to take a maid, or lad or any other kind of dwarrow to bed? I _don’t,_ ’ declared the warrior thunderously, putting up his glass for Bofur to clash. Then he ground his brows at Kíli once more. ‘But I’m telling you, stay away from elves. And hobbits,’ he warned, catching sight of Bilbo wandering across the courtyard. ‘D’you hear me?’

Kíli shrugged away a placating hand from Bifur at his left, and stared into his bread and ham.

‘C’mon, lad. Face like that’s for someone who couldn’t shoot down the beasts you managed to yesterday, well done. Never let it be said I doubted the arrow,’ Dwalin added magnanimously, draining his glass again. He looked searchingly around the table.

‘Where’s that jug got to? I wish we had ale. This elven wine is weak as piss.’ He frowned. ‘And where’s the merriment?’

‘Yeah,’ said Nori, still feeling odd that the big warrior had thumped down into the seat next to him. ‘Feels like I’m at a funeral,’ he added, tugging irritatedly at the lobe of an ear.

‘Aye. Bofur?’

‘Only one thing for it lads…’

^

‘M drunk,’ slurred Dwalin later, Thorin hefting him on one side, Fíli under the other armpit. ‘S poison. Where’s m’brother.’

‘He took himself off to his cot long since, as you would have been wise to do,’ Thorin grunted. ‘Come, help us. Boot. Forward,’ he gritted, throwing his weight behind an unsteady footstep.

Dwalin turned to him, bloodshot eyes pointing askew. ‘You can’t lift me, but I can _definishely_ lift you,’ he told Thorin loftily, using the hand that hung around the lord’s shoulders as embellishment. He slumped forward.

‘Where is Kíli?’ asked Thorin stiffly of his nephew as they half hauled, half dragged Dwalin to the quarters they had been given by the elves. It was a paltry attempt at conversation. The air strained between them; they’d still not really spoken since the trolls. From their first evening in Rivendell, Fíli had elected not to sit beside Thorin and Gandalf at Elrond’s table at dinner despite Thorin’s short invitation. Instead, he had gone to the seat that was furthest away in much the same way that Nori had avoided Dori.

‘Kíli is smoking pipeweed with the halfling – I mean Bilbo – and Bofur and the rest,’ replied Fíli evenly, heaving Dwalin with difficulty up a stair.

‘The _half_ ling,’ Dwalin scoffed the first part of the word, spit landing on Fíli’s cheek which he bore with a grimace. ‘I saw you sitting with him. He’s gonna soften you up, lad, spend too much time with gentle folk like that, an’…’ he leered down, ‘an’ more‘n your sword arm will go limp. If you get m’ meaning,’ he slouched suddenly.

‘You stink like elvish wine, cousin. It makes you too free with your words,’ was Thorin’s muttered comment, averting his eyes from his nephew’s discomfort.

‘An’ _you,_ ’ Dwalin unrolled himself just enough to stagger a few more steps and put his nose into Thorin’s face. ‘ _You_ brought him here in the first place. I can’t be held responshible, you said. Then _I_ have to run my boots off over Mahal-forsaken plains of warg-shit with a halfling bundled under my arm like I’m nursing a sodding _fidget._ ’

He stopped suddenly, wavering but rooted on the spot, and Thorin and Fíli’s arms strained from their sockets at the sudden tension. The tattooed warrior’s eyes took on a glazed and uncertain quality, blinking dolefully at something he’d just caught sight of in his mind’s eye.

‘I had a dream,’ he rasped wonderingly, the words alone enough to blow any tipsiness left over from dinner from both Uncle and nephew. Dwalin wiped his beard with the back of his hand; his mouth hung slackly open.

Thorin stood floored, frozen.

‘What – ’ Fíli turned his head to its side warily. ‘What did you dream?’

Dwalin sagged, and the two caught him again. ‘Th’ halfling. In the snow, crying his soft guts out,’ he mumbled. ‘ _Khazdân_ falling from a, from a…’ he drooled into Thorin’s neck, flapping uselessly at the dwarf’s chest. ‘Thorin. Thorin. Look.’

They managed to manoeuvre him into the small room he was sharing with his brother, and onto the unoccupied heap of bedding they’d piled against one wall. In the opposite corner, Balin was a snoring tuft of white among elven velvet.

‘Thorin,’ Dwalin fisted urgently at the other’s shirt. ‘You’ve left tracks of blood all through the snow.’

Then he fell back onto the cushions, and his head rolled, insensate.

Fíli stood uncertainly as Thorin considered his shield-brother. Dwalin was matching snore for snore with Balin, the drool beginning to find its way from the corner of his mouth.

Thorin looked up, and the two exchanged a bare glance that nevertheless was heavy with intimation, the air stretching taut as one of Kíli’s bows.

The dwarf lord said nothing, but turned and stalked from the room.

^^^

~ _What_ is the meaning of this?

And Aulë was suddenly gone, condensed in a dark clap of matter, Yavanna watching the mithril ring roll across the floor.

^^^

He strode for the Gardens of Lórien, his stare a jagged iron blade, hissing steam like a kettle.

~ The dreams have spread. The others are recalling the other life. And the young one did not dream of his elven muse last night. You tell me what you are about, and what you are trying to achieve.

~ Or what, you will go to Manwë?

The lord of dreams roiled in an ugly violet laugh.

Aulë slowed to a stop, at a loss. The pulse of dark purple lightened, then faded to a wan lavender.

Irmo gave the equivalent of a defeated shrug.

~ The weight of mithril you have thrown into the world finally casts its ripples.

The purple cloud hung in the centre of the room, revolving like a small puce galaxy.

~ Such ripples appear then fade fast, Great Smith. Before long, the dwarf and his nephews, indeed all of them, will forget. And then events will fall at random as they did before.

Aulë’s mouth hung open, wordless and dejected.

The waft of violet moved slowly, thoughtfully to the mirror.

~ It is not yet all in vain. You need to remind them with force, now. What about…

The purple pulsed once.

~ What about my wife?

~ _What._

~ Desperate times, Aulë.

^^^

It was midday. At the sun-drenched, tree-shadowed lake of Lórellin, Yavanna stepped out over the water, and landed on an island of creeping thyme. Tiny purple stars dripping with dew faced her as she walked, and each pressing of her bare sole lifted a herbal fragrance that diffused with perfume from a thousand ripe blossoms.

~ What the…

Elven figures were arrayed around the natural fountains that burbled a texture to the island garden, some curled tightly in tendrils of thyme, some full-length and entwined with one another in varying poses of entanglement. They were not statues. It could have been said that they were dreaming. It could also be said…

Aulë was unimpressed.

~ So that is how they hold the daydreams here. If I allowed that in the Halls of Waiting there’d be a riot.

He griped uselessly as he dodged the supine bodies in Yavanna’s wake, leaving small patches of smoking thyme behind him. He caustically pushed at a bushy growth of rosemary; it singed and sent its oil into the air. As he went he continued his uneasy commentary, rising annoyance rasping his lungs.

~ Dreams are dreams, if they don’t work at night they won’t during the day.

~ Withhold, love. When you are the lord of dreams you may judge.

Under the wafting fronds of a willow, at the edge of the lake’s lapping waters, there shone something silver.

Yavanna shivered with an unbidden delight as she pushed through the willow’s silken curtains. At her arrival, roses, poppies and creeping jasmine bloomed a cornucopia in the bower’s nest. 

~ I never mind coming to see you, Estë.

A figure stirred and half-opened lazy lids. She was silver-grey, voluptuous and languid, long locks flowing to her feet and shimmering with daylight shadow and otherworldliness. She used her hair as a shift, moving unselfconsciously and unbothered by her visitors; its gauze laid more suggestively across her curves than if she had been naked. She, too, was surrounded with sleeping elven figures, a head on her belly, another at the turn of her ankle, still others coiled together as a rest for her nape.

Aulë set his mouth and pushed through the willow leaves behind Yavanna and stopped, giving the place a nervous once-over. It was hard to keep sight on that figure. She slipped to the corner of Aulë’s gaze and to the edge of his mind even as he tried to fix upon her. He blinked, trying to focus. He thought she smiled in languorous welcome, and raised a finger from the pate of a sleeping elven youth to her lips, but it was hard to be sure.

~ And I never mind you coming, Yavanna, Green Lady of Growing Things. My bed becomes softer, the flowers throw a sweet, wild scent to the air.

Estë unrolled slim fingers, casting a slow palm across Yavanna’s, pale to dappled, inviting her to sink to her knees by Estë’s side.

As one, elves shifted their bodies, and suddenly there was space for Yavanna to dive right into poppy petals gentle on her barked pelt, closing her eyes in surrendered bliss. Aulë followed suit and sat awkwardly at his wife’s feet, very much out of his comfort zone.

Estë spoke in low, laughing confidence. He imagined her teeth were as pearls.

~ My husband, Irmo, thinks he knows desire. Is that not why you have come? He has told me everything.

Aulë’s great head moved, curiosity getting the better of his fundamentally distrustful nature.

~ Are you not day to his night? When one rises, the other sets? I had thought that was the way of things. How is it that you are able to discuss beyond the touch of dawn and the gloaming of twilight?

Yavanna sighed at his impropriety and ignorance, while he thought Estë laughed in little melodious waves, like the silver skin of the lake glittering in sunlight.

~ What you say is true, more or less.

~ Husband, they are one and the same.

Aulë’s brows hiked several levels to his hairline.

~ Hold on. He is you and you are he?

He could have sworn Estë sat up a little, holding her hair to her breasts, speaking softly, as to an animal she didn’t wish to spook.

~ Do you know why I am grey, dear Smith? Because I pour life’s most vivid imaginations into my dreams. The beings of Arda dream whole worlds when they steal away their waking hours with slumber. They _feel_ my dreams in daytime, stronger than how they might feel nightmares. As real as the waking day. As restful, or as enticing. As healing as a lover in body, flesh and warm blood.

She patted an invite beside her in the leafed bower, as Irmo had done so in his purple room. Grumbling under his breath, Aulë found his way around elven curve and limb, to once again lay down in a dream Vala’s bower alongside his wife.

~ No. Here.

The shaping of the words in her mouth struck a cadence that pounded his chest as a bell. She smoothly indicated her other side. He grumped, leaping over what he imagined to be her legs to lie awkwardly at her other arm.

~ I can see why you and elves find one another favourable.

She ignored his facetious tone, pulling him in with a light purring laugh of satisfaction. Yavanna already slept fast in the crook of her other elbow, joining the pile of languid bodies curled together in the bower.

~ What mortals understand as change does not enliven the blood of immortals, when one can in theory live forever. The patterns of life become obvious, a tedious repetition. Dreams, by contrast, become as play, as a lover in their own right. Always available, called up as easily as a drift into slumber, yet never the same. Anything may happen, in daydreams.

Estë stroked his rust-charcoal hair in affection, winding the fingers of her other hand around his, stroking the mithril ring. He growled, even as his mind began to fog and drift. For her part, Estë hummed with pleasure at the tiny vibration his ire produced on the suggestion of her skin.

~ Give me a being in an afternoon’s drowse, and I will paint their eyelids with that which they most want in the world.

She smiled lasciviously, and the bower bloomed red among the grey.

~ Is that not what you wish? Irmo tells me you have dwarves you wish to yoke fast to desire. Do you want to try?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *trills unashamedly* Yep, Dwalin’s a terrible drunk. That scene always disappointed me, the scriptwriters had an opportunity to not make homophobic jokes (in a dwarven culture where only a third are female? I mean, come on. Those hairy miners all needed some love), & to this day I don’t get why certain choices were made but oh, well. Here we are. I fixed that scene my way.
> 
> Also - I am a massive sucker for imagining how characters smell bc I have a mild perfume obsession. Be interested in what you think of my version of Eau de Thorin. There'll be more of this in the fic... :)
> 
> For my lovely readers and appreciators, the next instalment will take an extra week or so to go up because lots of life is going on right now. Bear with me, I want to get this next chapter right. For those of you sticking with this busy little epic romp, be assured there’s five more chapters already written and waiting and at least five beyond that yet to go – this AU makes me happy when I’m in it, so more to come.
> 
> Neo-Khuzdul  
> Imrikhí!: Shield! (Imperative)  
> Khazdâna: dwarf women (pl)  
> Khazdân: dwarf men (pl)  
> Addad: fathers (pl)  
> Imn’adad: dwarven version of a godfather


End file.
